Primogeniture de facto
by Jubalii
Summary: What started off as a routine, "peaceful" meeting between the Hellsing Organization and Iscariot quickly devolved into terror. Now the Vatican City is on fire, deadly children are roaming the streets (sort of), and nothing you see can be fully taken for granted. Seras fights to escape the city and call her master, while Integra simply fights to survive. (pic credit to featherofme)
1. Prelude

**Author's Note:** Surprise fact- _Ciudat Atragerea_actually came about as the result of 3 different stories that sorta got mashed together and split apart as time went on. One of those stories was a semi-thriller about how Integra and Seras get stuck in the Vatican during a Siren attack.

While the story never went in that direction—though it's easy to see what parts I kept—the main plot of _that _story didn't wither and assimilate into CA like the others did. So, without further ado, here is my latest Masterpiece Theater reject—**"Magical Primogeniture"**.

* * *

"Enjoying yourself, Police Girl?" Integra glanced at her traveling companion with equal parts distaste and amusement. The younger woman was all but bouncing in her chair like a small child, looking around the airplane cabin with an expression of sheer excitement.

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed as the airline hostess walked by. The elderly hostess gave her a strange look, but Seras seemed unperturbed. "I've never actually been in a plane before, much less _first-class_!" She adjusted her reflective sunglasses on her nose and smiled broadly—though close-lipped for good measure—at a little boy staring in their direction from a few seats ahead.

"This _isn't _a pleasure cruise, Agent Victoria," Integra reminded her sharply, looking back at the book resting in her lap. "You are my bodyguard for the duration of my stay in the Vatican, and it would do you well to remember your station." Seras deflated, a pout forming on her lips.

"I know, I know," she muttered, crossing her legs and moving them restlessly in her seat. "Master drilled me on it all last night. He's really pissed that you won't let him go, too. He kept glaring at me, though I have to admit that part of that might have been because I'd stopped listening to him."

She made a face. "He complains like a little kid whenever he doesn't get his way…." She clapped a hand over her mouth and her eyes flitted to meet Integra's. "D-don't tell him I said that. I don't need another one of his "obedience lessons" anytime soon."

"I don't plan on telling him that, Agent Victoria," Integra replied, a rare smile creeping at the corners of her mouth. "In fact, I'm rather inclined to agree with you on that point. He does act more like a spoiled prince rather than a vampire king at times." Seras giggled and nodded.

"I know! Whenever you don't give him permission to do something, I hear about it all night long!" She covered her mouth again, eyes guilty. "Not that I'm cutting your judgment, ma'am—_sir_."

"It's quite alright," Integra said, marking her place in her book and looking the younger woman full in the eyes. "You don't have to worry about holding your tongue in front of me. I hear far worse from your commanding officers, I assure you. At least you can stand being in the same room as Alucard for more than ten minutes without feeling the need to write a formal complaint."

"Oh, I feel the need," Seras joked. "I just don't go through with it." She giggled again and then watched the hostess go by with a tray of drinks. "How soon until we get there, do you think?"

"Oh, another half-hour or so should do it," Integra answered, looking down at her wristwatch with a frown. "A cab should already be waiting to take us to the hotel that we'll stay in tonight."

"What?" Seras' brow furrowed in puzzlement. "We're not going straight to the Vatican? I thought we were going to stay there; Master kept drilling me on how to sleep with one eye open, so to speak." She deepened her voice and did a surprisingly accurate mockery of the ancient vampire. "That Judas Priest and his disciples will be breathing down your neck all night, Police Girl. It's your job to protect our master, and you can't do that if you're being tacked to the wall with a bayonet while still snoring."

"We'll remain at the Vatican for the rest of our stay," Integra explained, "but for tonight we'll settle on a penthouse suite near the airport. I don't want to go in front of the Pope looking like I just sat on a two-and-a-half hour flight." She looked up just in time to catch Seras' incredulous smirk, accompanied by a muffled snort. "What is it now, Agent Victoria?" she snapped, and Seras' eyes widened considerably as she realized that her boss had seen the expression.

"Well—it's just—I mean, not to be rude, but…" Seras looked away, her cheeks stained bright pink. "You always look exactly the same, sir."

"So do you, Police Girl." Seras flinched and laughed awkwardly.

"Well, you know what I meant. But I don't mind staying at a penthouse, either. I've never been in one." She looked sad for a moment. "I wish… I wish I could order room service. It wouldn't be the same unless I had the entire package all at once." She caught the heiress' eye once more and shrugged. "I've never lived high-class before. What's the term for it? Bourgeoisie or something?"

"I haven't the slightest," Integra remarked dryly and turned back to her novel. They passed the remainder of the flight in silence, Seras busying herself with inciting laughter from a nearby baby by making faces while Integra finished her book and then closed her eyes, waiting serenely for the piolet to prepare them for landing.

* * *

"I've always wanted to tell someone to "put it on the tab"," Seras said later as she poured herself a glass of what Integra assured her was delicious wine. Seras had wanted to get the most expensive on the menu, but Integra had also assured her that if Walter had seen the price for _that_ on the bill, it would have given the poor butler a heart attack. She took a cautious sip and nearly purred at the taste—it wasdivine, from the bubbly consistency to the smooth way it flowed down her throat when she swallowed.

"You're easily amused, aren't you, Police Girl?" Integra sniffed as she looked at her own plate of filet mignon. She took a bite and chewed slowly, her eyes locked on the papers she had carried in her suitcase. She was meeting with several very important political figures in the Vatican over the next few days, and she was never one to just "wing it". She wanted to know everything about the men she had to talk to, so that she could be prepared for almost any scenario.

"Well—no, I just watch a lot of television," Seras admitted. "They always say things like that on the telly." She was watching television as they spoke, though at Integra's insistence it was muted. It didn't matter—all the channels were in Italian anyway, and she could only guess what was happening in the soap opera she was watching.

"Is that so?" Integra murmured, but it was clear that she wasn't really listening. Seras sipped her wine and tried to figure out why the character on the screen was sobbing hysterically, though she couldn't decide if the man with the eyepatch had broken up with her, or if the middle-aged woman with the heavy makeup had told her something offensive. For all she knew, it was both.

* * *

"This place gives me the shivers," Seras mumbled as they stepped out of the cab. Ever since they'd passed into the Vatican City, the Draculina had been on edge in a way that Integra had never seen her before.

"Nerves?" she asked, feeling some concern for her "bodyguard". Seras shook her head, looking around with a wary eye, keeping her sun parasol close to her head. The day was overcast, but both women weren't taking chances. Without the (quite fashionable) trench coat and parasol, the poor girl ran the risk of a nasty sunburn should the clouds clear.

"No, sir." She sniffed and suppressed a jerky movement that Integra couldn't place to any certain emotion. "But… it's protected," she finally declared.

"Whatever do you mean?" Integra asked under her breath as they waited at the gates for someone to come and meet them. On the outside, the building they stood in front of was no different than any of the other office buildings on the road. But they were assured by their driver that this was the headquarters for Vatican Special Forces: Section XIII.

"It's something I can't really explain," Seras replied apologetically. "It's more like a general feeling that I'm not supposed to be here." Integra frowned, but something caught her eye and she pointed up at the threshold of the gate.

"That's probably it," she noted. A paper was tacked on the tip of the gate's summit with a single nail. There were more identical papers on nearly identical nails scattered at regular intervals along the walls surrounding the building. Integra had dismissed them without really looking closely as some sort of advertisement or political poster, but now she could see it was clearly a barrier, albeit a weaker one. It was made to hold off small attackers, and not more powerful creatures like Alucard or Seras. Of course, that didn't mean Seras couldn't be affected by them.

"You can see those?" Seras blurted out in surprise, her eyes cast upwards as well. "I thought—I assumed all humans couldn't see them. I just thought that because I was a vampire I could." True to her word, every human that walked down the sidewalk didn't spare a single glance at the papers nailed to the walls. Integra would've betted her fortune that there were more scattered all around the city; that would explain Seras' unease about being on hallowed ground.

"I'm not like other humans, Agent Victoria. I'd have thought you would have noticed by now." Seras blushed and nodded, but before she could say more a man stepped beyond the doors. He glanced up at the clouded sky, and then at the two women standing just beyond the gate's reach. His eyebrows rose as he took in Seras' overdressed state, but he said nothing as he came forward.

He was an older man, dressed in the habit of a priest and carrying a book beneath one arm. His wizened features were browned with sun and age, and his hair was a steely gray. It was neatly combed and his thin face was clean-shaven, save for a mustache. He wore large round glasses, behind which his eyes shone with an intelligent light. He reached them and bowed, offering a hand to them both.

"Greetings Sir Hellsing." Integra shook his hand, but her face was schooled into a frown that already seemed more contemptuous than friendly. "Young lady." Seras smiled brightly at him and got a small secondary nod in return. Seras saw that his eyes were nearly the same shade of gray as his hair. "I am Father Renaldo, and I welcome you to Rome. I trust everything has been to your satisfaction so far?"

"Oh yes," Seras said when Integra didn't respond. "It's been quite lovely, actually." The priest's eyebrows rose slightly, as if surprised that either of them had answered. He turned after a moment and ushered them through the gate with a hand motion.

"Well, then; this way. Bishop Maxwell is expecting you. If you'll just follow me…." he trailed off, leading the way into the building. Integra pursed her lips and Seras huffed, leaning in close to speak into the heiress's ear.

"You know, a smile goes a long way," she chided with clenched teeth, trying hard to keep from letting her vexation show. "You don't have to reinforce the stereotype that all English are rude tossers. All they need now is proof that we don't know how to cook and they'll be set for life."

"We don't show friendliness to the enemy," Integra replied solemnly, her frown still firmly in place.

"Well, they're not really the enemy, are they? More like rivals, really. I didn't say let them walk all over us," she added when Integra didn't reply. "Just act more relaxed, is all. They're not bloody likely to attack us when they're the ones that offered a "peaceful meeting". If you act like you're expecting an attack, they'll think they've got into your head." She smiled at the secretary as they passed the reception desk and made it to the elevator.

Integra looked as though she wanted to argue, but when they were in the elevator there was no way to speak without Renaldo overhearing. She looked cross, but Seras noticed that her shoulders slowly relaxed and she let out a breath. She looked back at Seras, who offered an encouraging nod when the priest's back was to them.

"Here we go," Renaldo spoke up when the elevator stopped at "4F". "From here, it's only a mere flight of stairs to the private offices." The elevator doors open and the three were accosted by a flurry of activity. "What in the—?" the priest exclaimed, looking at the people running to and fro.

"Oh, Father," a male with a shaggy goatee said breathlessly as they all stepped out and the elevator doors closed behind them. "What do you think? The copier's broken."

"Again?" Renaldo sighed, shaking his head. "Are you sure it's not simply jammed?"

"No," said a female with bright red curls cascading down her back. Seras thought that her eyes were incredibly pretty—a bright hazel that seemed to shine with gold near the pupils. "We've tried everything. _Please_ let us call Andrew. It'll get fixed then."

"You know that to get Andrew we have to go through Bishop Maxwell," Renaldo scolded. The entire room erupted in protests.

"I've got to get this report to Maxwell's office _ASAP_!"

"His Holiness's office is expecting these end-of-month files by tonight, Father!"

"If Maxwell had any sense, he'd just break down and petition the Accounting Offices for a new copier," the woman with the ginger curls complained. "The one we have now is older than Anderson."

"Where is Anderson?" another asked suddenly. "I bet he might be able to lift it up and jostle it around a bit—see if it could shake the machinery loose or something." His statement was met with a chorus of approval and a few black-cloaked Iscariots broke from the pack hanging around the copier to head off through the maze of cubicles that stretched as far as Seras could see.

"I'll see if he's in his office," Renaldo assured them. "But until I find him, or convince the bishop to call for Andrew, then you'll just have to do without it, or walk down the street to the warehouse and see if they'll let you use _their _copier." He turned and motioned Seras and Integra onwards, pointing out the door that led to the stairwell.

"If you don't mind me asking," Seras asked when they began to climb the stairs, "Who's Andrew?" Father Renaldo shook his head.

"Not _who_," he gasped, puffing as he climbed the stairs. Integra was faring a little better than him, but Seras had already outpaced them both. It helped when you didn't have to breathe and your muscles never ached from overuse. "They mean Section XI Andrew; they're in charge of general repair and restoration for the Vatican offices."

"Oh. So… they're the ones who have to repaint all the frescos and things?" Seras asked, ignoring Integra's "be-quiet" glare.

"The very ones." Renaldo paused for breath at the top of the stairs, one hand on the railing before coughing and pointing ahead to the carpeted hallway. The women moved together down it.

"Quit talking to them. Bunch of Papists—they're not worth your breath," Integra muttered. Seras smiled and chuckled, the sound condescending. She was beginning to see why Walter had warned her to "make sure things go smoothly" before they left. If left to its own devices, Sir Integra's prejudice would be the start of a holy war.

"You know, they're humans too," she replied softly. "I mean, that could have been the old copier in the library at home. Those Iscariots could have been Hellsing soldiers. Human nature is always the same, no matter where you go." She paused. "Maybe you have to stop being human to learn that," she mused, eyes distant.

She was so caught up in her sudden epiphany that she nearly ran into the doorframe at the end of the hall. Integra managed to grab her arm and pull her back, but the girl stumbled and only some quick footwork kept her from knocking over a fan palm in an expensive looking vase sitting near the window.

"Careful," Renaldo warned, frowning as he watched the nouveau-riche vase being put in unnecessary danger. "Many of these are antiques, older than I am," he added imperiously, moving around them to knock on the elegantly carved door.

"Enter." Renaldo opened the door and moved ahead of them to announce their arrival.

"Bishop Maxwell—Sir Hellsing and… guest," he faltered, looking at Seras as if trying to decide what term might best sum her up. Enrico Maxwell sat behind a tall mahogany desk, gazing at them apathetically. He was dressed as opulently as ever, as though wearing lavish garments cemented the fact that he was highest in the pecking order compared to everyone else in the building. His hair was combed back neatly in its ponytail, not a strand out of place. His silver spectacles sat on the edge of his long nose.

The entire office was kept in pristine order; the bookshelf seemed to be dusted and sorted by alphabetical order, the desk was free of papers and the surface was polished—even the carpet was virtually free of debris. _It looks better than my office_, Integra admitted to herself as she took in the scene. _But my office proves that __**I**__ have a heavy workload. Perhaps he doesn't do any work at all_, she added inwardly with a sense of smug amusement. _It wouldn't surprise me. _

"Before you begin, Bishop Maxwell: are you aware that the copier machine is broken again? You have an angry mob downstairs who insists that someone from Andrew come and fix it promptly." Maxwell sigh mirrored Renaldo's at the news.

"Yes, yes, have someone come fix it. They can't seem to get it through their thick skulls that we don't have money to drop on new equipment every quarter," he muttered, and Integra felt a quick pang of empathy for the man. She quickly squashed it back down; even if she did understand his financial plight from personal experience… that was no reason to soften up. She had the sneaky suspicion that Maxwell just wasn't a man to be trusted, even if he did claim to work for God. The memory of what transpired at the museum a few years ago only further cemented the notion.

Father Renaldo nodded and backed away, closing the door behind him as he left the office. Maxwell suppressed another sigh and picked up an expensive-looking ballpoint pen, pulling a legal pad towards him and scribbling down a memo in Italian. He rubbed one temple and then laced his fingers, looking haughtily at them.

"Well, Sir Integra Hellsing," he finally spoke, ignoring Seras completely. The Draculina didn't seem to mind; instead she had her head cocked slightly towards the closed door, and Integra wondered if she might have been trying to listen to the copier problems downstairs. With her vampiric senses, it was entirely possible.

"Maxwell," she replied curtly, taking a seat without waiting for him to offer one. His smile was clearly forced as he unlaced his fingers and tapped the few papers he did have on the desk in front of him. "Hurry up and say your piece; unlike some people, _I _have important work to do."

"Let's not fight; after all, this is only day one. We still have two more days of each other's company. We should both try and make this as easy as possible," he said, sounding as though he were quoting someone else. He slid the topmost paper towards her along with his ballpoint pen.

"What's this?" she asked, picking up the document and eyeing it speculatively.

"It's a simple contract, nothing more." Maxwell's smile became less frozen and more conniving as he spoke. "It states that while you're within the confines of the Vatican City's borders, you forfeit your right to call your little pet monster to your side. We can't take any chances while our upmost important people are all gathered together."

"This sounds far more suspicious than mere defense, Maxwell," Integra argued as she looked over the exhausting legal jargon written on the page. "After all, if I can't call my vampire than wouldn't I be unprotected?" The archbishop pointed at Seras.

"There's your protection, or have you already forgotten?" he asked with a wicked glee. "If you remember, we said you could bring whatever security you thought was necessary, save Alucard. If you only brought _one _bodyguard, then that's your fault." He paused for a moment before pointing again. "As such, she needs to sign this paper too. Don't want to leave any loopholes, you see. I'm sure a busy woman like you understands the need for thoroughness, especially in thesematters."

Integra bit her lip as she scanned the contract again, carefully reading over the fine print. She really had no choice, did she? Then again, did she have cause to worry? It was only a few days, and Seras could be counted on if things went south. She didn't need to fight, per say; she just needed to protect Integra long enough for them to pass the borders of the city and then they could call for Alucard.

She wrinkled her nose, but obligingly took the pen without a fuss and signed her name with a flourish on the topmost line. Seras looked hesitant, but after a reassuring nod from Integra she also took the pen in hand and signed.

He took it with a shit-eating grin and stamped the corner with a gold-embossed symbol. Seras shivered again and this time, Integra felt something akin to cold water trickling down her spine. She had to sit ramrod straight to keep a shudder from overtaking her body as well. She knew then that the contract was more than simple "I trust you" legal terms. Maxwell had done something supernatural to it, and Integra was sure the repercussions would be far worse than settlement fees.

"Now that that's out of the way, His Holiness should be nearly ready to—"

"_Damn this blasted piece o' machinery to hell and back again!" _Seras nearly jumped out of her coat and even Maxwell seemed shocked as the thunderous voice sounded at the top of its lungs. His eyes widened and he coughed, standing up as Renaldo reentered without knocking, mopping his brow with a kerchief.

"Father Anderson has had no luck with the copier," he announced. "And Andrew can't get anyone out here until tomorrow afternoon. As such, here is a list of document deferments for you," he said, brandishing a thick stack of papers. "If you would, please sort through them at your earliest convenience." Maxwell scowled, but sat the papers on his desk and all but pushed everyone out of his office.

When they reached the Iscariot's floor again, the situation was nearly the same. The biggest difference was that the copier was now leaking copious amounts of ink onto the beige carpet, turning it a sickly color that resembled macadam. The Iscariots whose cubicles were nearest the copier were rolling their chairs back as far as possible, their eyes cautiously watching the approaching flood of ink as they gathered their long robes up off the floor.

Paladin Alexander Anderson, the source of the outburst, was currently standing off to the side and scratching his head as the ink continued to pour out of the copier's bowels. He looked up as they entered, his eyes glancing over Maxwell and Renaldo but lingering on Integra, and then Seras. He frowned in contempt and his eyes narrowed as he watched them. Seras squeaked and hid behind Integra, who returned the icy gaze tenfold as she allowed Renaldo to move ahead of her to the elevator.

"Anyone who procrastinated until the last day and then had _the nerve_ to turn in a deferment better have that piece of paper off my desk by the time I get back," Maxwell warned, the even tone unable to hide his anger and impatience. "I don't want to hear it!" he shouted when a cry of outrage rang up from his subordinates. "You lazy bunch; Sloth is a sin!" He glared at them all before entering the elevator last and pushing the button so hard that it was stuck for a moment, forcing Father Renaldo to pound the metal wall in order for it to pop back into place.

* * *

"Thank you for coming all of this way to see me." The Pope was nothing like Integra had ever thought he would be. She'd always imagined him as she'd seen on the newsfeeds, dressed up in red and gold with a staff and surrounded by legions of obedient followers. But the person before her looked less like a divine leader and more like… well, a person.

He was a little old man, wrinkled and dressed in a simple white habit with a matching cap. The only jewelry she could see was the rings on his fingers, and there was no staff in sight. He sat on a comfortable looking chair that matched the one they'd placed her in. The only ones in the room were herself and Seras, the Pope, Father Renaldo, and Maxwell. If she didn't know any better, she could have sworn it was just a simple meeting like she was used to at the palace in England.

"You're quite welcome," Integra said, making an effort to be polite. The man looked like he could have been Walter's age, and he was clearly no real threat to her. "Though I must admit, your invitation surprised me. I was certain you were planning another crusade against me with your little bishop in the corner over there," she half-joked, nodding at Maxwell.

The bishop in question's nostrils flared at the tone she took with his boss; she knew in his mind, he was cursing her up and down for acting as if she was the Pope's equal. But in her mind, she was in the right—she answered to the Queen, not some old man in Italy. The Pope chuckled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling.

"Oh, Maxwell manages to get ahead of himself every now and again," the man said in a slow, sure voice. He spoke as if the bishop wasn't in the room. "But I can honestly say that I wish nothing more than to work with the Church of England as partners—we are all God's children, and we should work together towards a more harmonious existence."

"I'm glad we're of one mind," Integra replied, settling back in her chair and taking on her usual confident stance. She wished she had a cigar, but she'd promised to keep her addiction out of the holy buildings while on her stay. "There's no need to fight it out with each other at every turn, especially when half the time our goals are the same."

"Yes, yes," the pope agreed softly. "We must protect humanity from dark secrets, and in turn we have become the dark secrets… for over two thousand years," he trailed off, looking at the stained glass windows high above them. "I hope you will allow me to ask a few questions of you. I wish to better understand Hellsings."

"Well, I'm well prepared to answer any question you have about our organization—within reason, of course," Integra conceded with a wry smile. However, the Pope held up a hand and shook his head.

"No, you misunderstand me. I mean I wish to understand more about Hellsing, as in the familial line, not the military organization. Your ancestors were very mysterious, and I confess, I am curious to know a little more about the extent of your power."

"I don't understand how knowing about my family can help your cause, sir." Integra's brow arched. Again, the Pope shook his head.

"Forgive me, but I must conceal my thoughts for this moment. I'm afraid I've been left to my own thoughts for so long that I must now pose the questions. But I assure you that if you are honest in your answers, I, too, will give you the answers you seek when we are finished." Integra was silent for a long moment, trying to decide what he meant by his roundabout information-gathering.

"Fine. I'll answer… again, within reason," she acquiesced with a quick nod. The Pope smiled.

"I am grateful for any and all cooperation, and I am sure that Bishop Maxwell is grateful as well." He turned to the younger man, whose face darkened when he realized the Pope wanted a response. He bowed, but his smile was grim.

"Yes, very grateful," he parroted, but his eyes showed that perhaps he wasn't quite as appreciative as the Pope.

"Well then… firstly, do you know what I mean when I speak of "primogeniture"?" Integra's eyes widened in surprise.

"Naturally," she answered. "It's the entailing of estates through family lines. Why?"

"Well, I assume that you have gotten your position, and your organization, through primogeniture. You are an only child, are you not?"

"I am. My mother passed when I was born, and my father never remarried." She frowned in puzzlement. "What does this have to do with anything?" The Pope laced his fingers and leaned forward, his bones creaking audibly in protest. He winced, but rested his chin on his hands and looked at her thoughtfully.

"And your power over the vampire Alucard… was that something acquired through primogeniture as well?"

"Well," Integra paused, brow furrowing. "Yes, I suppose so."

"You aren't sure?"

"It's complicated. When my father died, he named me head of the family. I became the heir to Hellsing. But my father's brother," she faltered again, rubbing her right arm. "My father's brother was also still alive, and the house was entitled to him in the case of my father's passing. So until my uncle died, I had the Hellsing status but not the estates, I think."

"And what of Alucard? Did he obey your uncle's commands?"

"Not once in his life," Integra guaranteed him. "My uncle did not live a full three days after my father's death, so there really wasn't any time." Seras, who had been listening in curiously, noted that she didn't say a word about Alucard being in a magically-induced slumber at the time.

"I am sorry for that," the Pope said, his own brow furrowing at the thought of the woman losing two family members within the same week. Integra shook her head with a rather cynical smirk.

"I'm not. My uncle tried to murder me for control over the family. I was… glad to see him dead." The Pope's eyebrows lifted in shock.

"My, my," he murmured. "What a shame. But, as they say, all families have their black sheep." The room was silent for a long time. Then, he spoke again, his words ringing out and breaking the serenity. "Now, let's say that you die. Who would get control over Alucard then?"

"No one," she answered firmly, feeling a small jolt in her heart. Were they trying to kill her?! "The next heir would have to be related to me, and I have no relations alive." The Pope nodded.

"And if you were married?" Integra shook her head once more.

"That's not enough. They have to be blood of my blood—they have to have the blood of Abraham van Helsing running through their veins. Otherwise, the Cromwell restrictions fail and Alucard is released into the world with all his powers fully intact." The Pope looked worried when she revealed this.

"Just as I feared," he said in an anxious tone. "And I suppose your English government is attempting to take measures against such a horrendous disaster?" Integra's smile faltered and then disappeared completely.

"Well… I suppose one day I'll have to get married and have a child." She saw Seras look at her strangely and ignored the Draculina, her eyes trying to remain focused on the old man sitting across from her. "But until then, there's not much they can do."

"And they have a husband picked out for you?" Integra blinked uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then laughed.

"We're not entirely archaic, sir," she replied, amused. "When the time comes, I'll pick my own husband. No one's going to tell me who I can and can't marry. Unless it's on direct orders from the Queen, they can take their orders and go to hell with them." Her eyes widened as she realized what she'd let slip out, in front of the holiest of holy men at that. But the Pope didn't seem offended; instead, he joined in her laughter.

"My child, you are quite the lady," he chortled. "It's been a pleasure to meet you finally, after hearing about you so often. I can see now that the rumors are true; it's easy to believe that you can run circles around my men and keep them guessing." He twiddled his thumbs, his smile fading. "You've given me much to think about," he added under his breath.

"Well, then before I leave, you can keep _your _end of the bargain. I gave you the information you wanted—now tell me why you wanted it in the first place." The Pope was quiet again, and Maxwell stepped forward.

"His Holiness has said that he wishes to think," he said coldly. "We should leave him to his—"

"No, Bishop," the Pope held up a wrinkled hand, rings glinting in the fading afternoon light. "She is right. She's upheld her part, and now it's my turn." Maxwell looked livid, but obediently backed into his corner once more when Seras huffed and took a half-step towards him.

"It's a little known fact," he began suddenly, "that the cardinals and priests we keep are merely a front for the general population." He tilted his head and studied her. "As you well know, there's much, much more that goes on behind the scenes. I asked you about primogeniture because I was curious how you English do things. Although many of my men wouldn't like to admit it, your ways are, in actuality, quite similar to our own."

"Is that so?" Integra drawled, tilting her own head to mirror his stance. She wanted to seem uninterested, but her damnable curiosity reared its head and she couldn't help but want to know more. After all, this was secret Vatican information that she might not be able to get her hands on any other way. It was her _duty _as a Round Table Knight to learn about the opposition.

"Oh, yes. While many of our positions _are _made so that anyone can aspire to them, a few select jobs are… special." Integra let him stay quiet for a length, and then she couldn't help herself.

"Such as?" She cleared her throat and played it down. "I don't think I quite catch your meaning, sir."

"For example…" he thought a moment. "You are familiar with Father Alexander Anderson of Section XIII, are you not?" Seras grimaced from her spot well out of the Pope's line of view, but Renaldo still caught the gesture and frowned in a rebuking way.

"I am."

"Well, you may be surprised to know that Paladin Anderson is only our third Regenerator." Integra _was _surprised to hear it, but she knew better than to let it show. Instead, she nodded for him to continue. "It's a work in progress, but Anderson is our best yet. We're still working out the kinks, though. My guess is that our _fourth _Regenerator will be the crowning glory for the scientists at work on the serum."

"That's very interesting, but what does it have to do with—"

"It takes a very special sort of body to handle the effects of Regeneration," the Pope cut in. "After all, the human takes on various characteristics that can affect the body in different ways. If we don't have that _one_ body with the perfect genetic code—the results range from unsettling to downright ghastly."

"You really should visit the labs while you're here, if you're interested in that sort of thing," he added. "The men and women of Section IX are always happy to talk about their work. They can tell you far more interesting things than I can about the process." Integra nodded, though she didn't really accept or deny the offer. "Yes… now where was I?"

"Primogeniture," Father Renaldo piped up helpfully.

"Ah, of course." The Pope shifted in his seat. "The second Regenerator—you won't know him, but your father or grandfather would have most certainly dealt with him—was one Father D'Arcy of France. He was nearly—no, he _was _running out of time when we finally found our next perfect body, lying in a trench after the Second World War with a bullet hole through his face. We brought him back, cleaned him up, nursed him back to health and he's been with us ever since."

"Charming," Integra responded, her nose wrinkling at the gory thought. "I still don't see what primogeniture has to do with any of this."

"Genomic Primogeniture," the Pope answered grandly. When no one said anything, he coughed. "The inheritance of genes. Our perfect body is nearing the end of his usefulness—60 years is our max, but 50 years make a good average, and Father Anderson is nearing his 53rd year with us."

"While his mind is old in spirit, his body is still young, and he can still produce a child. With his perfect genes, plus the genes from the mother, a perfect child could be made." The Pope finished, clearly expecting agreement from his guests. Instead, Integra gazed at him in disbelief before finding her voice.

"So your plan is to… _breed_ Regenerators." She couldn't keep the disgust out of her voice. "That's vile, even for a bunch of Pap—" she stopped, not trusting herself to say more. The Pope looked amused, as if he were a schoolmaster teaching a skeptical child.

"Of course it sounds bad, when you say it that way," he said with a smile. "But when it's for the greater good, then certain conventions must be overlooked. I assure you, Father Anderson is perfectly aware of his duty towards the Church, which must soon be fulfilled. Like his predecessor, he's running out of time. We've tested the orphanage children, as well as those of the members of Iscariot, but _none_ of their genes meet the qualifications." He sighed. "I don't understand the particulars, but I'm assured that the genetic code is quite rare."

"How do you even know if it will pass from parent to child?" Integra asked, part of her feeling as though the entire matter was completely abhorrent, but the more scientific side of her was intrigued at the ideas the scientists were suggesting. She wondered what code they needed; if she could just look at it, just once, and sate her curiosity… perhaps there was a reason to visit the labs after all.

"We have records," Father Renaldo replied simply, before the Pope could even speak. "When Anderson's father died in the early 1960s, we ordered a specialized blood test as part of the autopsy. His father was also a carrier of this rarer code."

"But again, I don't know very much about particulars. You would have to speak to the Regeneration technicians." The Pope waved a hand dismissively. "You really should visit them. Maxwell, take her before they leave for the day. She would find it quite interesting, I believe."

Maxwell nodded stiffly, but didn't speak.

* * *

The scientists that worked in Section IX's dimly lit laboratories were the most jovial, outspoken people that Integra had met in quite a while. When they'd arrived at the unassuming building, simply marked I.X. Laboratories (for the public's benefit, she was sure), Maxwell had taken off and returned with a small woman in a lab coat that he introduced simply as "The Head Technician".

"Hello there!" the woman said in a cheerful American accent. She was a pale woman, her round cheeks smattered with freckles and the veins on her jaw showing when she pushed her ash-brown hair back behind her ears. She wore thick glasses and when she smiled, Integra could see that one of her upper front teeth was chipped. " Welcome! What brings you here today?"

"I'm touring the Vatican facilities," Integra said hesitantly as the woman rocked on her heels, her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. "I came here because I had some questions about the Regeneration process." The Head Technician rubbed her hands together gleefully.

"Ooh, that's one of my favorite topics, considering I'm at the head of the research!" she crowed, and then jerked her head in a motion for them to follow. "Come along with me. I'll take to you Lab 18. That's where the magic happens."

The lab was sterile and drab gray, a striking contrast to the woman sitting inside it looking a microscope slide. Her hair was _four _different colors; turquoise cascaded down her back and turned to a lovely midnight blue at the bottom of the long strands, and the bangs hanging in her face were dark purple with pink tips. She looked up when they entered, adjusting her glasses on her nose and grinning just as cheerfully as the Head Technician.

"This is my partner in crime," the Head Technician said triumphantly, clapping the scientist on the back as she passed by. "Helped me uncover a few mysteries back in the day, actually." She motioned to Integra as she spoke to her partner. "They want to know about Regeneration techniques."

"Cool," the colorful scientist replied, turning on her stool. "At the moment, I'm actually looking through another batch of DNA to see if I can find a match from the newest kids at the orphanage."

"I was told the code had to be special," Integra said.

"Yep!" The colorful scientist chirped. "It's actually got to have a strand almost like a mutation. At the moment, we're just calling it "Strand R" for lack of a better term. Once we manage to find a person with it, we can work with them to make the operation a success. Sadly, lessthan 1% of the Earth's population is thought to carry the gene." She made a pouting face. "Not good for us, since Maxwell is always down our damn throats about it."

"Why?"

"If we can't find another child with the proper genes, old Andy's gonna have to marry and have a kid of his own. Maxwell doesn't want that, 'cause…." The colorful scientist trailed off with a shrug. "He might have the hots for him. I don't know."

"You do too know," the Head Technician scolded as she came back from another room, carrying a jar in her hands. "Don't spread gossip like that—you'll have Thomas-es crawling all over the poor guy's office in an Inquisition." She addressed Integra and Seras, sitting the jar on a long table nearby. "Maxwell doesn't want Anderson to marry because A—it'll be a lot of money spent testing the women, and B—being married cuts work production in half."

"Testing?" Seras asked in confusion. The Head Technician nodded sagely.

"Absolutely. The mother will have to be tested to make sure her genes won't dominate over Strand R. It's clearly a Recessive gene, but for the life of us we can't figure out why it doesn't behave like the rest of the traits do. You remember doing the Punnett Squares in school? Ab, Bb? Well, Strand R doesn't behave like a normal recessive trait. It goes AR, _Rb_, in a layman's most basic sense." Seras and Integra both stared blankly at the woman.

"It just doesn't act right," the colorful scientist summed up. "We dunno why. And only certain women's genes will allow the Strand R to show up as dominant instead. Ipso facto, we have to do fucktons of blood testing in here, all the time." She sighed and shook her head.

"That's the truth," the Head Technician said with a solemn nod. She picked up the jar again and presented it to the ladies. "This—go on, hold it; that's right—this is Regeneration serum. This stuff finds Strand R and goes apeshit with it."

"Ape-shit?" Seras sputtered as Integra sloshed the liquid around in the jar, holding it up to the light. It had the consistency of water, but the bubbles stayed suspended in the liquid's core.

"Yeah. Mutates the hell out of it," the Head Technician replied. "Complete reordering of the body's natural functions. Strand R takes the brunt of it, though other chromosomes get a nice little boost as well."

"What happens if there's no Strand R?" Integra asked. The Head Technician was quiet and shared a look with her fellow scientist. They both shook their head with a wince. "Bad?"

"Terrible," the colorful scientist agreed.

"Horrendous," the Head Technician offered. "We tried before, and it was…" she shuddered. "Poor guys."

"Poor girls," the colorful scientist added. "Remember that third one, back when we both first got here? The one with the overbite?" They both cringed and the Head Technician actually gagged. "But that was long ago, before we even discovered Strand R."

"In any case," the Head Technician said as she recovered, "that liquid is the key to Regeneration, specifically healing and longevity. Its water from the Fountain of Youth!" she joked.

"How does the process work?"

"Glad you asked!" the Head Technician smiled. "Andy—er, _Father Anderson_ was brought here when I had just finished grad school. I got to see his Regeneration firsthand. You see, they have to kill you before they do it, so that your body accepts it." She paused. "It's like resetting a computer when you update the software. If you turn everything off, it won't update like it's supposed to."

"You drain all the blood out first," the colorful scientist said with a sense of dark glee. "They look pale as ghosts, but we keep their heart pumping with that machine over there," she pointed towards a bulky object covered with a cloth. "Then, you pour the serum through their veins, and give it about an hour to work through completely. Pump the blood back in afterwards and you're done!"

"But how do you keep the blood from going bad?" Integra asked, one brow arching. "Outside of the body, it wouldn't last long." The scientists shared a smirk.

"Company secret," the Head Technician said at length. "I can't tell you _how_. Just know that our process works." She scratched her calf with the edge of her white sneaker. "Anyway, so that's the main process. Every twenty years or so, we add newer serum to the veins by IV, but none so massive as that first major operation. Anderson's been doing good, but his time is getting short, I reckon."

"The Pope said that too," Integra mused. "What do you mean by that? How is his time getting short?"

"Degeneration usually starts about year 80," the colorful scientist declared, looking back down at her slide and rotating the intensity knob on the base of the microscope. "When that hits, no amount of serum is going to help you anymore. One of our main objectives here is to make serum that prolongs the life of the user. Our first goal was serum that lasted 80+ years. Now it's serum that last's 120+ years. Next, who knows?"

"De-generation?" Seras repeated slowly, taking the jar from Integra and shaking it quickly, trying to dislodge the bubbles with no success, though the liquid sloshed almost violently in the container. "The opposite of Re-generation, I guess?"

"More or less," the Head Technician conceded, hopping onto the table and sitting there, elbows on her knees as she leaned over to speak to them. "The body begins to disintegrate. It takes a major nosedive and death comes when the lungs and heart finally fail. A human body isn't made to run so long, even with a mutant strand of DNA in there."

"That's awful!" Seras exclaimed. The Head Technician shrugged one shoulder dismissively.

"It's not a one-day process," she explained lazily. "The last Regenerator took about 10 years to fully Degenerate. With our advanced serum, I'll give Father Anderson about 25 years. He might not be much use after year 80, and he'll most likely be wheelchair-bound at some point, but his quality of life won't be fully affected until he reaches a century. That's my guess, anyway."

"She betted me $50 he lasts that long," the colorful scientist admitted. "I betted her $100 he only lasts 88 at most." She looked up, blinked, adjusted her glasses, and took another look at the slide. "That's if he doesn't get pulled apart by a vampire first."

* * *

**Afterword: **The afterword for this story will be dedicated to links for the songs that serve as the chapter headings.  
Since this is "Prelude", which can technically mean a lot of songs, I'm putting my favorite prelude in here: one from my main man Chopin (hey, it rhymes!)

Frederic Chopin: Prelude in E Minor

www . youtube watch?v = ef-4Bv5Ng0w

^^_You know the drill-just fill in the spaces, or use the title to look it up!_^^


	2. Crumblin' Down

"So you all sleep in these apartments?" Seras looked at the doors that stretched down the hall. It resembled a hotel's hall, with the plain carpeting and wallpaper, and the neatly ordered rows of numbered wooden doors. "Why? Why don't you have your own houses?" she asked, not thinking about the near-rudeness of the question.

"You get a townhouse when you are married," was the reply. The long red-haired Iscariot with the nice eyes that they'd seen earlier had been put in charge of accompanying them to the rooms that would be theirs for the remainder of their stay. They were stuck into the Iscariot apartment complex, seeing as it was the only one that had any vacant rooms at all (neither Seras nor Integra wanted to dwell on that fact too long). The second floor of the squat complex belonged to the females, and the woman had led them through the common area to the stairs with as little ceremony as possible. She seemed keen on getting them in their rooms and away from her.

"And what if you aren't married?" The woman didn't miss a beat.

"Then you're by yourself and don't need an entire house-worth of space." She eyed Integra warily, as if deciding whether or not the heiress would take offense to her words. "We're men and women of God. We're not _supposed_ to own a lot of gaudy things. We have basics for living and a few personal items—nothing that would take up plenty of space. A room here is plenty for the likes of us."

"This is your room, here." She gestured to Seras and opened the door. Seras stepped inside, holding her suitcase lightly as she looked around the room, if it could even be called that. The room itself barely had any space to turn about in. There was a plain twin-size bed, a small armoire that stood open and empty, and a desk shoved into the corner. A door opposite the bed stood open as well, showing a tiny bathroom with a shower stall and shelf stocked with toiletries.

"It's…quaint," Seras acknowledged with a strained grin. "But I suppose it is really all I need." She sat her suitcase on the bed and looked carefully at the small arched window. "I don't suppose you have anything that might cover this up, do you? I don't need the sun glaring in on me."

"Only the towel," the woman replied simply, nodding towards the bathroom. "I'll have someone bring you a spare. Which reminds me," she continued, "when you bathe, stick the towel in the laundry chute. It's behind the door. Usually we do our own laundry, but because you're a guest they'll just wash yours and restock them for you." She looked over at Integra. "Your bedroom is down the hall here. We don't have any empty spares right next to each other, I'm afraid."

"That's fine," Integra replied curtly. "Agent Victoria, I'll call for you around 8:00 am tomorrow morning. Good evening."

"Sleep tight," Seras called after them as they moved down the hall before closing the door.

Integra's room was just as plain and drab as Seras'. While she was used to a higher standard of living, being in the small room didn't bother her in the slightest. She unpacked her bag, situating her clothing in the armoire and her shoes by the door, and then putting her shower stall to good use. After she'd dried her hair and dressed in her nightgown, she brushed her teeth and then settled into the small bed with a book.

The unfamiliar sounds of night around her kept grabbing her attention away from the story, and she found herself looking up from the printed pages often. She heard water and showers running in her neighbor's rooms and a good deal of people wandering up and down the halls, doors opening and shutting as they spoke with one another. She heard people traversing the stairs, and masculine voices drifted up from the floor below. Someone laughed nearby, the sound high and tinkling, quickly followed by an equally loud "Shh!"

The central air kicked on and blew from a ceiling vent, cool and sterile. The night outside was cool as well; Integra was a cold-natured person, and the combination of central and nighttime air had her shivering in no time. She sunk beneath the coverlet, silently cursing the thin material that more resembled something from a cheap army barrack. _Well, I suppose it's a holy army_, she thought drily before sighing and turning off the light, curled up in a ball beneath the blankets to hold what little warmth she had left.

* * *

It was strange, so _strange_.

Seras rolled over with a sigh. If someone had told her a few years ago that she would be missing voices in her head, she would have worried for their sanity. But ever since Sir Integra had made her sign that waiver—or whatever it was—it was like… it was like watching television with the sound muted. She _knew _Alucard was there (sort of?) in her mind, but she couldn't hear him.

Of course, she could have spoken to him, if she wanted to. But that rat-faced bishop had stamped something onto that waiver and she'd felt the strangest sense of foreboding. Something deep down told her that if she broke her promise, it wouldn't end well for her. She was already neck-deep in enemy territory, sleeping in a tiny room and surrounded by a floor of women who would enjoy nothing more than sticking a bullet in her heart and cutting off her head.

If she could just ignore the strange-ness of her new silent mind and go to sleep! But it was the middle of the night—her noontime. She was wide awake, even if she had been awake for over 24 hours already. It wasn't her bedtime, it sure as hell wasn't her bed, and she was on edge=no amount of chamomile tea would help that, even if she could choke it down.

She had just settled again after her eighth fierce toss-and-turn bout when she heard it. She sat up in bed, clapping her hands over her ears. _What the hell is that_?! she thought, shaking her head. It sounded like a symphony of chainsaws cutting through a mile-high stack of chalkboards. The sound grated on her ears and sent shudders up and down her spine.

She got up, still dressed in her uniform, and grabbed the trench coat she'd thrown across the desk. She stuffed herself into it quickly, hoping that if she ran outside with a mob of confused, sleepy Catholics, they wouldn't notice who she was with the Hellsing symbol hidden beneath the coat's thick fabric.

Instead of the tumult she would have expected after hearing a loud, angry noise like that, there was silence outside the door. She opened it hesitantly, allowing only her head to leave the threshold before she was certain that all was clear. She looked up and down the empty hall and turned to make for her boss's room when every door opened simultaneously. She jumped a mile and both hands covered her mouth to muffle the scream that escaped, but her surprise quickly turned into bafflement.

A fleet of Iscariot women took one identical step into the hall, all at the same time. There was no air of puzzlement, even though the god-awful sound was still going as loud as ever. Seras backed against the wall, looking at the young women with wide eyes. They weren't even dressed; they all wore the same starched standard-issue nightgown. Their hands dangled at their sides, the long sleeves billowing around stick-like arms. Their feet were bare.

They all wore the same vacant expression, almost as if they were sleepwalking or hypnotized. Their eyes were devoid of emotion, their faces passive, hair uncombed. It was clear that they had all been asleep moments before, and they all had merely thrown back the covers and left the rooms as they were. They stood like statues for a long moment, and then at some unknown signal they all made a quarter turn to the right and began to march.

Seras jump-scurried out of the way and stood in the middle of the hall, two identical rows of single-file women on either side of her. When they reached the stairs, the two rows merged seamlessly into one and they moved down the steps. No one rushed; they all stood still and waited their turn.

"Ah, excuse me?" she asked a thin-faced woman near her. The women didn't so much as glance in her direction. "Hello?" She waved her hand in front of the woman's eyes, but other than an involuntary blink it was as if she had no clue of her surroundings. "What the hell's going on?" she muttered to herself, scratching her head.

"Y-Yumie!" Jumping again, Seras spun on her heel to see one woman wasn't behaving like the rest—in fact, she had just now stuck her head outside the door. She moved past the threshold as an Asian woman marched by stoically. She was about Seras' own height, with choppy blonde hair and glasses smushed haphazardly on her face where they hung unevenly.

"What's going on?" Seras called to the girl, who turned and looked bug-eyed at her, her hands trying to force her friend back. "Is this—some sort of drill?"

"Does it look like a drill!?" was the panicked reply, and the woman slapped the Asian on the face. "Yumie! Wake up and look at me! _Was ist__los mit dir?_' she yelped, lapsing into German as her voice rose steadily. The woman didn't look at her friend, only moving forward with the queue with the same unchanging, serene countenance.

"What is that _sound?_" Seras asked after a moment of watching the two women. The line had moved up enough that they were only an arm's legnth from her. The German glared at her, mouth pursed before she shivered a little.

"How the hell should I know?" she snapped. "I've never heard it before." Seras frowned at the woman's straightforward unfriendliness and was about to respond when the walls and floor shook and the sound was drowned out by an explosion. The woman lost her balance and fell backwards, ripping the Asian's sleeve and landing on the ground with a hiss of pain. Seras stumbled but stayed on her feet, hearing a loud crack all around her. She looked up almost instinctively and saw the split run across the ceiling.

"L-look out!" she cried, even though the woman couldn't move quick enough. She leaped forward and grabbed one of the German's ankles, pulling her quickly and bumping into the sleepwalking Iscariots, messing up the line. The ceiling collapsed with a loud groan-snap-crumble. Seras looked up from the downed woman to see the wall of rubble reaching to the ceiling, blocking off their half of the hall. She dropped the woman's ankle, ignoring the other Iscariots, who were quietly reforming their line for the stairs as though nothing had happened.

"Sir Integra!?" she called at the top of her lungs, but she hadn't seen hide nor hair of the woman since all this mess had started. In fact, she'd only seen Iscariots, and the heiress had been nowhere to be found. _Curiouser and curiouser, _she thought wryly as she looked back at the line, which had once again become single-file.

She looked back at the woman on the ground, who was adjusting her glasses and craning her head to see the rubble behind her. The poor woman, still in her nightgown as well, seemed to be in a state of shock. Seras knew too well what _that _felt like; for a moment, she wondered if the Iscariot thought it might be a crazy dream. She almost wished that it was a dream, or perhaps her mind playing tricks on her. But the stark reality was that something crazy was happening, and they were most likely being attacked. But an attack didn't explain the state of the women, did it?

"Come on," she commanded, offering her hand to the woman on the ground. The woman took it without thinking, but immediately shivered when her palm came in contact with Seras'. Seras winced; she knew that as a vampire, her body was only a few degrees warmer than a corpse, and the chill made touching her uncomfortable for humans.

"I don't understand," the German finally spoke, still trying to prevent her friend from reaching the stairs by grabbing onto the back of her nightgown. "Yumie, you need to snap out of it!" The woman paid no heed and put one hand on the railing delicately, just as the others had done before descending the stairs. The German made to follow her and Seras pulled her back.

"Wait, you can't go down there—" she started, but the Iscariot cut her off, yanking her arm out of her grasp.

"You're not the boss of me!" she spat childishly, grabbing for Yumie again. "Yumie's like a sister to me; I'm not letting her go off alone like this!" Seras made a frustrated sound and spun her back around to look her dead in the eyes.

"Listen to me!" she barked, and the woman's eyes narrowed in anger. "You don't know what's down there yet. What if whoever's done this is waiting down there and sees you aren't like the rest? You think your friend's going to wake up and be happy that you got yourself killed because you acted recklessly!?" The woman's face scrunched as she tried to think of an argument, but eventually her shoulders slumped.

"What do you suppose we do, Protestant?" The heat of the insult wasn't behind her words as she stared at the line of descending women with a sort of helplessness. Seras thought a moment, and as the last woman's head disappeared she tugged the German over to the stairs.

"I'm going to lower you over the balcony," she warned. "And you tell me if the coast is clear, or at least where they're all headed." The German made to argue, but then seemed to think better of it and nodded. "I wonder why you and I weren't affected," Seras mumbled as she leaned over the edge of the balcony to make sure that there was nothing that the other woman might get hurt on hanging from the ceiling. After all, the roof had crumbled—who's to say there wasn't some wires that had popped free or some sharp metal sticking just out of sight?

"Your guess is as good as mine," the woman replied as she leant on the balcony, both hands on the railing. "Now, how do you plan to—_wait_!" she squeaked as Seras grabbed her by the knees and knocked her over the railing, making sure to grab her gown as well so it wouldn't fall over her head and blind her. The woman bit back a curse and glared up at her, her glasses barely hanging onto her head.

"What do you see?" Seras asked, holding the woman steady so that she could beneath the overhang while staying in the shadow and out of sight. Unless someone was looking directly at the alcove that held the stairway, no one would be able to see her. The woman was silent, and just when Seras was beginning to worry she wriggled violently.

"Pull me up!" Seras obeyed and the woman practically clawed her way back up the railing as soon as she could reach. When she emerged, her face was flushed from the blood pooling in her head, but her expression was one of fear.

"I know what it is," she said breathlessly once both her feet were on the ground.

"What?" Seras urged, leaning over as if the answer stood in the stairwell. "What is it? What did you see? Were all the women down there—was Sir Integra down there? What about the men?" But the woman didn't answer right away, instead swaying with one hand on the railing. "What's going on!?" Seras pressed, wanting to grab the German's shoulders and shake her like a doll until the answer came out.

"_Sirenen… die meeres verführer…" _Seras shook her head uncomprehendingly. Suddenly, it was _her _hand being grabbed as the German dragged her back to her room and locked them both inside, biting her nails absently. "The tempters of the ocean, the –ah, what is the English word—the_ Sirens_," she clarified. "I've never seen them up close, but we learned about them when training for Iscariot."

"Sirens?" Seras repeated, thinking about what little mythology she could remember. "You mean those ladies on the rocks in that story… The Odyssey, that's it," she finished triumphantly, happy to have remembered the name of the epic they'd read once in school. The German nodded bitterly.

"That's right—well, in a way, it's right." She looked out the corner of the window, but nothing seemed to catch her eye. "They are devils of nature, and their favorite meal is human flesh."

"Naturally," Seras huffed. Why couldn't dangerous magical creatures just be vegetarians for once? "Wait a second…." She thought back to her muddled memories of the poem. "Aren't they supposed to sing? They had to tie that guy to the mast of the ship so he wouldn't jump overboard." The German nodded again.

"That screeching—" she made a hand motion to indicate the awful noise still filling the air. "That's the song. According to lore, it's only beautiful to virgins—everyone else hears the Siren's true voice." She looked back at the window, trying in vain to see through the darkness.

"But I'm a virgin still!" Seras protested. "That doesn't sound like a song to me, though." The German shrugged.

"You're a vampire, not a human," she said simply. "Perhaps it doesn't affect you."

"Maybe," Seras replied hesitantly. "But…hey!" she screeched, turning with incredulous eyes to the woman. "They didn't get you either! That means…." She trailed off as the woman turned a dark red.

"That's none of your business!"

"You're right," Seras agreed sheepishly. "I don't even know your name." The woman turned away, her arms crossed. Seras felt a little guilty—that was something incredibly personal to talk about, and she knew it. It had only startled her that someone that worked in such a prestigious religious setting would be anything other than a virgin… not that there was anything wrong with that! She had just considered all the Iscariots to be sort of asexual.

"Wolfe." Seras looked up, the word bringing her out of her thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"My name," the woman said, not turning around. "It's Wolfe; Heinkel Wolfe."

"I'm Seras Victoria." The woman did turn at that, glaring at the vampiress over her shoulder.

"I _know _who you are." Seras felt the familiar heat in Heinkel's tone, but chose to ignore it.

"Well then, Heinkel," she began, "we might as well try to get some more rest. When the sun rises, we can figure a way to get out of here." The woman nodded and moved to her bed, lying down on it and turning to face the wall without another word. Seras lay on the small expanse of floor, pillowing her head with her arms. Before she could say a word about turning out the lights, the power flickered and then turned off completely. Another smaller explosion boomed in the distance and she closed her eyes, wondering how in the world she was going to manage to get out of this one.

* * *

Integra woke up with one word flashing like a beacon of intense light running through her mind: _Detonation_. She sat up in the bed, her heart pounding incessantly against her ribcage, the coverlet clutched in both hands and held up to her chest. For a moment, she thought her mind might have been playing tricks on her, rather in the way a person can dream of falling from enormous heights only to wake up safe in their bed millimeters before they hit the ground.

In the wavering light from outside (perhaps clouds were obscuring the moon?) she saw the room. It was devoid of life, the bathroom still standing open, the door still tightly shut. She could see the position of the lock; she was still securely bolted in. There were no screams, no shouts of fear or anger, nothing to arouse suspicion. But it was the nothing that alarmed her the most.

Why had her mind honed in on that word? Why had she felt as though for a moment the bed shook, and her ears caught the sound of a muffled explosion and the resulting aftershock? Perhaps there had been an earthquake. She knew she wouldn't be satisfied until she had seen that all was truly well. She threw back the coverlet and stood, flipping the light switch on her way to the armoire. The lights didn't respond, but there came the sound of fierce sparking from somewhere above her head. She immediately flipped the switch again and stared up at the ceiling in vain, trying to see a problem.

It would have been easier if her window had been like Seras', closer to the floor and arched in a way that it gave off a better view. But her windows were long panels against the ceiling—during the day, the room would be flooded with light. But at the moment, there was only enough to see the outline of shadows, with a thin sliver of moonlight focused on the wall that held the door.

She went anyway to the armoire, pulling out a thin dressing gown before rethinking and putting it back. This wasn't her home—she wasn't going to walk around outside with nothing on but an ankle-length nightgown, dressing gown, and bare feet. She dressed as well as she could in the dark, leaving behind the suit coat and pocketing her pistol instead of on a holster where a potential enemy could see. She slid her shoes on almost silently, and then unlatched the lock and slipped into the inky darkness of the hallway.

The power must have been out, for the lights in the hallway were out as well, though when she went to bed they'd been shining beneath her door. She listened to the silence for a long moment, her heart still pumping adrenaline to all of her limbs. She decided in the end to go find Seras, and stepped forward. She walked in the center of the hall in order to keep from running into anything, her eyes straining to see in the pitch black.

She judged herself to be about halfway down the hall when she encountered something. At first, she thought she'd gone too far and had stumbled into the wall on the opposite end of the hallway. But she knew from walking it earlier in the night that there was no way for her to have walked the length in such a short amount of time. Reaching her hands out, she blindly felt across the impassive surface and it crumbled beneath her touch. Another touch had her pulling her hand back with a gasp as something pointy stuck into her palm.

She grabbed a crumbling piece and turned it over in her hands with a frown. Then, something above her head cracked and a sliver of light shone across the hallway. Looking up, she saw what appeared to be rocks rolling out of sight, and above the night sky shone with a silvery glean. She looked at it for a moment before moving the piece in her hands into the moonlight. She saw what appeared to be sheetrock, her hands stained chalky white from handling it.

Suddenly, a wave of comprehension swept over her. It was rubble; a pile of rubble. Part of the hallway had caved in, and because they were on the second floor, the ceiling naturally gave way to the roof. She felt a shiver run down her spine at the implication—it was very, very likely that she had been woken by an explosion. She shifted from side to side musingly. Something didn't add up. If the explosion or earthquake or _whatever_ had happened, surely there would have been more commotion. She wouldn't have been the only one woken by such noise, would she? She was a heavy sleeper!

Part of her reasoned that the debris might not reach the roof, and that she might climb over it and continue looking for Seras. For all she knew, the girl might be on the other side, looking for her as well. but she didn't want to call out in the night—she was vulnerable in this darkness, until her vampiric police girl could be called upon to be her night-vision. At the same time, she'd never been a woman to back from a personal challenge and she quickly began to negotiate the broken bits of ceiling. About halfway up the thought that live-wires might also be in the pile occurred to her, but she decided that they would probably be sparking and she would hear or see them before she touched them.

She didn't see the ceiling; she bumped her head on it hard enough to make her see stars instead. A half-bitten curse left her in a rush and her hands slipped on the panel she was using as a hold. She fell back and tumbled down the rubble, her hands and feet both trying to find purchase on the ground. She felt a sharp pain in her left calf and hissed as she hit the carpet, rolling twice before finally stopping on her back. She breathed heavily for a moment, her head pounding and dizzy, her arms and legs jelly.

She reached down to her calf, her fingers coming back sticky with blood. She felt a thin gash there—it didn't feel serious, but it would need to be bound. She must have hit a piece of metal on the way down; her pants leg was torn to shreds. She ripped it off, feeling her way in the dark and tying the fabric around the gash as best she could, using her fingers as a guide. She stood up, stumbling slightly as a jolt ran through her leg nerves.

What next?

She recalled briefly noticing another flight of stairs at the other end of the hall, past her own room. She guessed that they led back to the first floor, but she hadn't done any exploring. However, it beat standing around next to a wrecked roof, and it certainly beat sitting demurely in her room like a sitting duck. What if another part of the ceiling caved? She'd rather be on the first floor if that happened. _If I can find the stairs, I'll go down, and find Seras' flight of stairs. Perhaps the hallway on the other side is untouched as well. _

She walked back down the hall, this time leaning to one side and running her hand along the wall, counting doors. Her door—the 25th—was still open, and she stopped in the light to check her leg. She saw that her "bandage" was already bloodied, and in the light it looked much worse than what she'd felt in the dark. She felt her stomach turn, but now was not the time to be worried about such things.

There _were _stairs at the other end of the hall. She felt a sheer sense of joy as she climbed carefully down them, stopping once to rest her painfully throbbing leg. Beneath her, the first floor was just as quiet as the second, and just as dark. Darker, even, for below no doors were open to let what little moonlight there was filter through, and no roof had collapsed to allow a small beam to enter.

She vaguely remembered the common area being somewhere off to her right, which meant that turned around as she was, it would be to her left instead. That meant that the stairs were off to her now-right, if she calculated correctly. She touched the right wall and began counting doors again, her leg forcing her to limp as bolts of pain traveled up it. She knew that she would have to sterilize it somehow; perhaps there was a first-aid kit in the common area?

_Scrich…scrape…scrich….scrape…tap tap tap_

She stopped, and felt that for a moment her heart stopped too. Her eyes sought out the source of the noise, although in her mind she knew that it was pointless to try and see in the dark. For what seemed like eternity, she stood in one spot, her hand resting on door number 12, blood running down her leg and making her ankle itch before pooling on her sock and in her shoe.

Then, a flash of light… again, another flash!

A figure, holding a flashlight, stepped into the hall up ahead. Integra's eyes widened and she knew that the person, whomever it was, had come from the common area into the hall. The flashlight shined at her and she blinked rapidly, the sudden change from darkness to light blinding her temporarily. The beam was gone soon enough and when the spots danced out of her eyes, she gasped in surprise.

It was a child of perhaps thirteen or so, dressed in a sleeved nightgown that seemed too long for her. It trailed the ground behind her, hiding her feet. The flashlight turned on the holder and Integra saw the child's face. The round cheeks were cast into shadow, the gray eyes shining with fear. The child's long blonde hair was straggly and hung in its face. Integra wondered where she had come from; she hadn't known that children resided in this complex too. Maybe it was only a very young Iscariot in training?

"Hallo!" the child called out, her voice shaking with nerves. "A-are you hurt? I heard a bomb go off, I think."

"Are _you_ hurt, is the better question." Integra moved forward as quickly as she could until she reached the child. The girl shook her head.

"No, but—" she paused, tears filling the gray eyes. "I'm lost, and frightened. I can't find my teacher, or my sister either. I don't know what to do…" she trailed off, voice cracking. "Please, help me!"

"Of course," Integra replied a little awkwardly, unused to seeing a child—or anyone for that matter—crying. "Come along," she ordered, holding out her hand. "We'll go and find someone who knows what's going on."

The child reached for her hand with a teary smile, but Integra's fingers never even brushed the tips of the child's nails. She felt herself being jerked out of the light, the wind whooshing in her ears and her head spinning from the motion. There was a loud thump and then she found herself eye to eye with a bookcase, of all things. A snarl and another, louder thump made her regain her senses. She was being held in a vice grip under someone's arm, feet dangling two inches off the ground. She writhed against the hold, trying to get her would-be attacker to let go. She felt for her pistol, but it was missing. _It must have come out of my pocket when I took that fall!_

There was finally a loud slam and she was dumped unceremoniously. She landed on her injured leg and couldn't help the quick yelp of pain that followed, stumbling and catching herself on the bookcase. The light was much better in here, thanks to a kerosene lantern burning on the little desk, and the window above the bed, which was much larger than the one she had upstairs. She wobbled over to it and sat, twisting her leg and quickly unraveling the makeshift bandage. Blood still oozed from the gash and she winced.

"Yer injured!" The voice, quite familiar, rang through the room and she jumped in surprise. She put a hand on her heart, feeling that the poor organ couldn't take much more tonight. She looked up at the owner of the room, standing with his back against the door.

"Very astute observation… Paladin Anderson," she remarked with a sneer, biting the inside of her cheek as she shifted her leg on the bed. It was clearly much worse than she thought, if it caused her this much pain. The priest watched her silently, head tilted as he stared openly at the wound.

"I got someat for ye leg," he said finally, moving to the bathroom and carrying the lantern with him. She shifted again, trying not to bleed on the sheets. Her mind, now that the shock was over, was racing. Why did he drag her into his room? A loud scratching on the door called her attention, and she felt concerned for the child still out there. Wasn't Anderson supposed to like children?

"Here." He came back with a wet washcloth and something in his hands, which he sat on the table. He handed her the cloth and nodded towards her leg. "Wash it, and then we'll get ye set." He moved back to the door, which was nearly shaking with the force of whomever or whatever was scratching it. He made a face and slapped his palm against the wall. Integra looked up in time to see the holy barriers glow; he had them strung like lanterns all across the wall, and in neat rows all the way down the door. It was a very powerful barrier too, she was sure.

"The child, out there," she piped up, wondering if perhaps he might not have seen it, though she was certain there was no way he could have missed it. "We have to get it in here." HE turned around, and his face was a mask of confusion.

"Child?!" he repeated, his tone the closest thing to panicked that she'd ever heard coming out of him. "Wha' child?!" Now it was her turn to be confused.

"The one holding the flashlight, of course!" She bit back another curse as she rubbed the cloth over her leg, firmly pressing back the pain. Anderson shook his head grimly.

"Tha' thing… 'twas no child." His nose wrinkled in a snarl. "God-forsaken creature; going so low as to take the form of God's innocent lambs, all in pursuit of its bloody slaughter." Integra blinked slowly, trying to digest what he'd said. She didn't understand a word of it, and it wasn't for the heavy accent, either.

"Excuse me?" He didn't answer her directly, instead coming over to take the red-stained cloth from her hands. He went into the bathroom and she heard the clank of metal as he stuffed the cloth down the laundry chute. He came back, grabbing the things on the desk, and she saw it was a bottle of antiseptic and something bulky.

He sat apart from her on the bed, placing the antiseptic aside and unfolding the bulky object, which she saw to be a white shirt. He ripped the bottom hem off, along with nearly half the bottom of the shirt, working in a near-stifling silence. Then he folded the remains of the shirt and placed it beneath her leg. She saw what was coming and closed her eyes as he poured some of the antiseptic over her leg, using the shirt as a barrier between the bed and the liquid. Agony blinded her and she grit her teeth, her hands clenching until the knuckles were white. By the time the pain faded and she opened her eyes, he was deftly tying the ripped half of the shirt tightly around her leg, knotting the end with an expert hand.

"It was," he finally began, "a Siren." He looked back at the door, which was continuing to rattle fiercely, though nothing tried to enter. Integra knew that it probably _couldn't _enter with the barrier.

"Siren?" she repeated thoughtfully, looking down at her bandaged leg. She moved it again, this time with a little more success. The sear of the antiseptic had taken the bite out of the pain. "We don't have those in England," she admitted. "I didn't think they existed."

"Aye, they exist alright," he growled. "But never this far north. Dangerous creatures. They stay near the oceans—the cliffs are barren. Less to kill 'em with." He shook his head. "This don't bear well." He looked at her, taking in her disheveled appearance. "Did ye not see anyone upstairs?"

"No. I was going to find Ser—Agent Victoria, but the hallway is blocked. The ceiling caved in. I didn't hear anyone, so I came down here to take the other stairway and go up another route." She tried not to glare at him; after all, if he spoke truly, he might have saved her life. "What about you? Why aren't you out fighting those things, if they're so dangerous?"

"Silver knives willnae do a thing to a Siren. Just makes them angry. A barrier will hold 'em off, but ye have to have something _organic _to do 'em in with. Wooden stake from a yew tree'll usually do it," he stated, as if giving her a lecture. "Or if ye can find a way to set them on fire, tha' works too. But ye can't drown 'em, or choke 'em, or any o' tha' sort. They live in water, and they only breathe when they want to."

"So they're like mermaids?" Integra knew of mermaids, but the ones near the coasts of England were docile creatures that didn't enjoy rising from the ocean depths unless it was the ecclesiastical full moon. They kept to themselves and didn't bother humans, so she'd never had a reason to interact with them.

"Did I _say_ mermaid?" Anderson sneered. She bit back a sharp retort, her hands fisting in her lap. "I know yer a Protestant, but yer not completely daft. Mermaids are harmless. They only come up 'round Eastertide to brush their locks and laugh at the moon. No, mermaids are quite different."

"Well, I suppose I should thank you for saving me, but Protestant gratitude probably means little to you, and I do have a vampire to find. So if you'll excuse me…." she stood, turning to leave. She wasn't sure if she could handle being around him for an extended period of time, and was more than ready to find Seras and quit the place for good. But he lashed out faster than she could move, his hand encircling her arm. She turned on him at once angrily.

"Ye shouldnae leave yet," he warned her. "Yer safe here behind the barrier." She took on a smug expression and tried to shake her hand free.

"I appreciate the concern, but—"

"Are ye a virgin still?" he cut her off. Her mouth hung open for a moment or two out of pure disbelief that he would even say a thing like that to her.

"_I beg your pardon?!" _she snapped, an infuriated blush rising to her cheeks. "I don't know what sort of thoughts you're having, but they aren't the kind any normal sort of priest should be having!"

"Idiot!" he hissed at her, shaking his head. He moved to the window, throwing it open. "Can ye not hear it?" At first, she just heard the crackle of fire. Confused, she moved to the window, and gasped in surprise. The horizon… it was on fire! Smoke billowed into the air, the orange glow staining the night.

"The city's on fire," she murmured, but before he could answer, another sound drifted to her ears. It was… singing. Low and soft, it was the voice of _many _children. It ebbed and flowed like a tide, or a church hymn. She closed her eyes, leaning towards the window to catch the words.

It was strange—the syllables were all drawn out, long and wavering in the night. The flames danced in slow rhythm with it, she felt her own heart slow in time. As she listened, she began to sway to the song, humming and trying to match its uneven tone with her own voice. She had the strangest feeling that somewhere, long ago, someone once sang the same song to her, though the syllables were strung in a nonsensical way. She could find no semblance of real words in the song, but she loved it. She needed to get closer, and maybe if she listened long enough, she could memorize it and sing it too….

"No, lass." A sharp smack caught her unaware and the window closed, cutting off the song. She held her cheek, and realized with a sense of dread that she had been ready to try and jump out of the window. "Tha's how they get ye." She felt lightheaded and the thing that masqueraded as a child continued to scratch at the door, but instead of singing the sound was a fierce hiss instead.

"But you—you weren't affected by…" Integra shook her head, trying to clear the fog hanging over her mind like a drug. It made her thoughts hazy and she couldn't seem to focus. "How—Why?"

"Simple," he replied, guiding her back to the bed and sitting her down. She swayed where she sat, phantom syllables still bouncing around in her mind. It was funny—without the song in her ears, the syllables meant nothing to her, and though she hadn't been away from the window for thirty seconds, she couldn't remember the tune. "Tha' song… it only holds with virgins." Integra turned this over in her mind, unable to process the statement as a thought.

"But… priest," she blathered, holding her head in one hand. She felt like falling back on the bed and sleeping for weeks. It was if she'd been up for days without a nap or anything, and her mind just couldn't go another moment without reprieve. "That's…." she mumbled, her eyes closing. A loud clap near her ear had her wide awake again. "That's impossible, isn't it?"

"No." That was all the answer she got, and she was too dizzy to inquire further. "I'm worried, though. I think the other Iscariots might've been bewitched by tha' song, and they've gone off to their deaths, or worse." He did look very worried. "And without anything to kill them Sirens with, I'm stuck here for lack of a better plan. My blades willnae hold 'em off, and they're fierce with their claws. They've been prowling the lower level all night, and dawn is still aways off."

"I didn't…earlier…." She wasn't speaking above a whisper, her lips barely moving as she sagged sideways on the bed. "The song, I mean." He managed to piece together what she was saying.

"I have my own theory about tha'," he assured her. "I'll tell ye about it when ye wake, if ye remember to ask." He pushed her lightly and she fell back on the bed, boneless. In another moment, she was dead asleep. He sat down in the desk chair, facing the door, a blade in his hand in case the barrier fell.

* * *

** Afterword: **

John Mellencamp: Crumblin' Down  
www . youtube watch?v = FxSlYdIYQ7E


	3. Siren Song

"I din'nit like it." A woman balanced precariously on what used to be a townhouse. She wore a long tunic of shifting moonbeams, her pale hair cut just below her ears and framing an equally pale, pointed face. Her eyes were a strange color—though you'd never have seen it before, one glance would have led you to believe the color of her irises matched the color of a witch's pyre down to the faintest glimmer of flame.

"I do," another female replied cheerfully. She was sitting amidst the smoldering ruins of a burnt vehicle, a singed object in her hands. She took a bite out of the object and blood spurted across one pale, perfect cheek. She blinked her eyes in surprise, which sparkled with a gleam not unlike that of an executioner's axe poised above an innocent's neck. Then, shrugging, she wiped her cheek on her shoulder and continued without a care.

She chomped merrily on her mouthful, the crimson liquid staining her teeth and oozing obscenely down her chin. "Cheer up, darling Olenoe. After all," she continued, speaking as she took another bite off of what was now clearly a severed human arm, "our dear older sister has all but secured our victory."

"But, I still din'nit like it." Olenoe sat down, brushing back her younger sister's long raven locks. The youth smiled up at her, wiping her mouth on her forearm as she continued to eat her barbequed feast. "You think 'bout it, Harimoni. We 'ave put in fire the entire city of God."

"Eh?" The younger woman arched a brow; her mouth paused over her meal. "And so?"

"'En so, what for? Why we done it?" The younger one thought a moment before answering.

"For Mama, naturally." She nodded, as if this simple reason gave her every right to torch a city and consume the flesh of its citizens. Olenoe shook her head, platinum locks shimmering along with her dress in the dim light of the still-burning buildings.

"For Mama? Or for Savarinea?" As if saying her name summoned her, the eldest of the sisters stepped out from behind a building. Of the three, it was clear that she was both ringleader and the most vicious. While Harimoni held an untroubled attitude about the entire ordeal and Olenoe seemed more concerned, the expression on Savarinea's face was one of sadistic pleasure.

"For Mama, naturally," the eldest repeated the youngest word for word, shaking brunette curls out of her face. Her eyes were the color of torture rooms and soulless dungeons, where secrets lay buried and no emotion existed other than pain and fear. "As for me, I seek nothing more than gratification and revenge for our poor mother. Any added pleasure I derive from the destruction of this town of God's whores is merely an added bonus." Her tone dared Olenoe to challenge her convictions on the matter, but the middle Siren didn't seem to be convinced and acted oblivious of the dangerous glint in the elder's eyes.

"Well," she said slowly, as if thoughts took some time to form in her mind before they could be voiced, "I'm jes' worried about divine punishment 's all. After all, 's a town of holy people." She looked ruefully at the half-eaten arm in Harimoni's grasp. The youngest caught the expression and pulled her prized meal out of arm's reach warily. "A town of—"

"God's own, _chosen_ whores," Savarinea enunciated sharply, one thin eyebrow arching. "And not even that—for where shall your divine punishment come from, sister? Every damned Christian in the city is a virgin, and they're in our grasp now."

"We ought drive them into the sea," Harimoni piped up helpfully.

"Merfolk," Olenoe suggested, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on her knee. "Muirgheal 'n her people respected the humans of the City. They may'n retaliate if word gets out."

"What's a mermaid to us?" Harimoni giggled, throwing the bony remnants of her arm behind her, where they clattered on the asphalt and then lay forlorn. "Our kingdom trumps theirs. What good are they if they can't chase us up out of the water? Fishy tails won't walk on land," she tittered, mimicking a flopping fish with her arm to make her point.

"In any case, are you trying to say that you don't _want _to avenge Mama's name?" Savarinea accused, eyes narrowing. "Must I remind you what they did to her?" Harimoni shook her head with a soft whimper, tears filling the cold steel of her gaze. Olenoe sighed and shook her head as well. "Well, sister? What did they do, since you seem to remember?"

"They 'ent gave her no time to run, 'n caught up her body by a river 'n burned her a'li'in like a witch at the stake. 'En then scattered her ashes to the wind so n'ought would find her 'n have a chance of bringin' her back with the moon," she answered icily, flame-irises burning brighter in her shallow impatience. "I 'ent forget, no matter how many decades goes."

"And yet you seem unmoved, _darling _Olenoe." The elder bore down on her sister with a cold sneer. "Are you having second thoughts? Are you worried about your _soul_? Tell me: shall we go in the midst of the flaming cathedral and pray for your salvation?" Olenoe's livid glare spoke for itself, and Savarinea laughed icily. "You are a damned creature; you have been a damned creature from the moment you crawled out of our mother's womb, on your stomach, in the dirt, eyes cast towards your final home."

"Savarinea—" Whatever Olenoe was going to say was cut short as her sister slapped her hard, the sound ringing in the crackling, burning night.

"Shut up," the eldest hissed. "What makes you so special? You're damned. I'm damned. Harimoni's damned. Nothing you do will change it, so why bother? Shut the hell up, and eat something before you waste away. Enjoy life's sinful pleasures before you burn, my sister," she added, her voice smoothing and becoming the beacon that humans flocked to. "I know I will."

She moved away across the landscape, towards the live tank where fresh meat waited with dull eyes and soulless expressions. Olenoe rubbed the red welt on her cheek and huffed, watching her leave and then flipping an obscene gesture at her once the brunette turned the corner. She then buried her face in her hands and screamed in frustration.

"I ain't damned," Harimoni broke her silence, wiping the last traces of blood off her face. "I believe what Mama said to us: Sirens die and go back to the air we were formed from, just like Mermaids and Selkies go back to their mother-sea."

"That's just a myth, told to children t'make them feel safer," Olenoe snapped, rolling her eyes. "There's no such thing."

"Well, you can't make me believe that we were born to go to Hell," the youngest retorted with a sniff. "I ain't gonna. When _I _die, I'm gonna become a part of the wind."

"You do it," Olenoe replied. In the distance, a vehicle started to life with a sputtering roar. The two girls lifted their heads and looked towards the noise with a start. "Wha's that?"

"It sounded like an automobile," Harimoni replied hesitantly, her ear still cocked towards the sound. "Prolly came from Rome," she laughed nervously after a moment. "After all, we got everyone in the Vatican City here with us. No one's around to start a car."

But Olenoe didn't reply. She only stared off at the horizon, one hand on her chin, and contemplated the life of a vehicle in the dead City of fire and brimstone.

* * *

"First, we go to the armory for supplies," Heinkel said to Seras as they made their way to the Garage. "Then, we'll go and begin searching for the others, and _then _we'll find a way out of the city." They'd abandoned the ruin of the apartment complex; Heinkel had made the point that Seras didn't know if Integra had even been in her room when the attack began, and neither of them could tell how far the rubble went down the hall. Finally, Seras was forced to agree that it would simply be easier to leave the City and call for Alucard, who would be able to find Integra in all of three seconds, at the most.

"Well, just until I get out of the City," Seras conceded. "Then, I think I'll go on my own."

"That works for both of us, Left legger," Heinkel replied snarkily. They had been sneaking their way down the abandoned streets for a while now, having to take detours around fallen power lines and alleyways full of ruined buildings. Finally, after an hour walk that should have been no more than fifteen minutes, Heinkel pointed ahead with a triumphant, yet quiet-as-possible shout. "There, that's the Garage!"

The door had fallen in and part of the second story was completely collapsed, but Seras moved the heavier pieces and together they made a hole small enough for them both to slip through. Then, all was black. Seras could see, naturally—her eyes were made for night and near-pitch darkness. But Heinkel stayed rooted to the stair, her eyes straining to see anything in the darkness.

"Come on," Seras urged when the Catholic woman didn't move. "We have to keep going—we don't have time to sit around and wait for those Sirens to come to us." The woman looked around, trying to pinpoint Seras' location. The staircase they were on led downwards, so she assumed the Garage was actually a basement structure. The stairs were so wide that Seras was sure a car probably could have driven up them, and the large corridor made her voice echo.

"I can't see a damn thing," Heinkel snapped, but behind her words she sounded a little anxious. She reached out her hands, and Seras realized she was trying to shuffle along the stair until she reached one of the walls. One look told her that there was metal and perhaps power lines sticking out of the ruined structure, and so she grabbed Heinkel's hand before it could make contact. The woman shook her off, but Seras grabbed on again with a tighter hold.

"You might not be able to, but I can. And I see that those walls aren't safe—there's metal and all sorts of sharp stuff you can cut yourself on, and I need you to be in one piece for a while yet," she joked. The other woman didn't seem to share her mirth, understandably, and she grew serious again. "I'm not going to shove you down the stairs or anything. You've got to let me guide you." She could see Heinkel's face wrinkle in mingled disgust and skepticism. "Please," she pleaded, "just trust me. I promise I won't let you fall."

"Do I really have a choice?" Heinkel sighed, letting her hand lay limp in Seras'. "Alright then, vampire. Hurry it up and get us off these damn stairs." Seras nodded (though she knew the action went unseen) and walked back up the stairs to her. Implementing the knowledge she learned years ago the Police Academy, she placed the woman's hand just above her left elbow.

"Hold onto me here," she instructed, and felt the woman tighten her grip accordingly. "Now, walk two steps behind me, and when you feel my elbow move, that's a step, alright? I'm going to go slowly, but tell me if you need a moment."

"Whatever," was the only reply she got, but when she glanced back she saw that Heinkel's expression was fighting to hide the blatant nervousness. She still didn't trust Seras in the slightest. Seras couldn't blame her—the woman was just as bigoted and brainwashed as the rest of them. Why couldn't anyone see that in times like these, race and religion meant nothing? She laughed wryly to herself; if Alucard was able to speak up in her head, she was certain he'd have said something scathing about humans and their shortsightedness.

"Are you ready?" she asked, and Heinkel nodded. "Alright, let's start stepping down. Remember, just follow my elbow and you'll be fine." She began to slowly descend the stairs, Heinkel just steps behind her. For the first few, the Catholic was clearly trying to get her whereabouts, but then it became easier and soon she was telling Seras to hurry it up a bit. Finally, they reached the bottom.

"Sunlight!" Heinkel said excitedly, pointing. Seras followed her finger and found that around a bend in the wall, light was shining feebly. She gulped and pulled her trench coat tighter around her, wishing she had her parasol. She hadn't thought to go back for it before they left the complex. "That's where the automobiles are," she added thoughtfully. "I hope those Sirens didn't think to steal them all." They both ran forward, Heinkel finally able to see enough to let go of the vampiress's chilly arm. They turned the corner and stopped short, Seras flipping the collar of her coat and sinking into it like a turtle into its shell.

It was sunlight all right…. It was clear that more than just the second story had caved in. Seras blinked against the harsh light shining, clearly showing the entire back half of the building had been completely demolished. She could see a headlight laying here, the crushed remains of a Mazda Miada there, a busted windscreen beneath what used to be an overhead light, and was now little better than a brick.

"_Verdammt_!" Seras jumped in shock as the woman next to her curse loudly. "_Verdammt noch mal_! Why me?!"

"Shh!" Seras hissed, making a hand motion to "bring it down". "Someone's going to hear us if you keep yelling like that!" she whisper-shouted, keeping her voice as low as it could go. Heinkel ran a hand through her hair, fingers tugging on the strands as if pulling it out would make everything better, her teeth grinding audibly. "Look, there's a vehicle!" she exclaimed, motioning towards a battered motorcycle. It was leaned against a support beam; the weight of the beam had held up most of the ceiling around it, so the motorcycle suffered no injuries other than a few scratches and a broken headlight.

"You want to try and drive that thing out of here?" Heinkel replied cynically. Seras shook her head and she snorted derisively. "I didn't think so." Seras peered around, still able to see better than the human next to her despite the sunlight. She saw another untouched vehicle near the corner.

"Well, there's a bus." Heinkel turned and groaned.

"The bus," she repeated with a surprising lack of enthusiasm. She looked almost ready to cry. "Why me?" she asked again, eyes raised to heaven. Seras shrugged.

"It's better than the motorbike," she pointed out, making her way over and around to the bus and forcing open the door. "Hey, it's even got the key still inside!" she called out cheerfully.

"Of course it does; who'd want to steal the damn bus?" Heinkel replied dispassionately, climbing the stairs. The inside of the bus resembled a school bus, with two rows of benches covered in faded blue faux-leather. Seras' head brushed the ceiling, and she immediately felt bad for the gangly Iscariots that might have had to crawl in the bus a time or two. A sign near the back urged passengers to "_Stare seduti fino a quando il bus è a una fermata completa_". She turned to see a similar sign near the front that stated "_Telecamere__stanno guardando__. __Siate__buoni cristiani__mentre sul__bus__!" _with an arrow pointed to what appeared to be a camera.

"What does it mean?" she asked Heinkel, pointing to the sign. The woman looked up and read the Italian quickly, thinking for a moment before answering.

"Cameras are watching. Be good Christians while you're on the bus," she quoted. Seras pointed to the back one. "Stay seated until the bus has stopped." She frowned. "I'm not your damn translator; figure it out or forget it."

"I find it hard to believe that people who work for the Vatican can't behave on a bus," Seras laughed, ignoring the woman's caustic remark as she sat down in the driver's seat.

"Maxwell put those up, for whatever reason," Heinkel replied offhandedly. "You know how to drive a bus?"

"You don't?" Seras answered with a question of her own.

"I don't even have a license!" Heinkel scoffed. "We all take the Metro to Rome, like normal people."

"Well..." Seras looked nervously at the controls. "I've driven cars before, and I've driven an artic once when I was an officer... but I'm not sure how close that is to a bus."

"A _what_?"

"An artic... articulated lorry, you know." She waved her arms about. "Big truck with a load on the back?"

"Ohh." She nodded. "_Eine sattelschlepper_," she said to herself. "That's probably different than a bus."

"Well, in any case, you better sit down and hang on." Seras turned the key and the engine sputtered to life, albeit hestitantly and sounding as though it might stop at any minute. Heinkel shook her head, muttering something about "the damn bus" under her breath before sitting in the second seat from the front and clutching the seat in front of her for dear life.

"I hope no one heard that," Seras mumbled as she found the lever to shut the door with. "Um... now where's the gears..." The bus lurched in reverse. "Okay, so that's back, and now—" She looked up. "Where's the way out of here?" Heinkel pointed to a caved in section.

"It used to be over there." Seras looked back at the stairwell—the overhang was too low. They wouldn't be able to make it out.

"Well, if we can't go under, and we can't go around, we'll just have to go over instead." She looked in the review mirror. "Hang onto your glasses, Wolfe."

* * *

Integra felt like she was waking from the worst hangover in her life. Her head pounded, her leg was still throbbing, her limbs felt like lead weights. She grimaced and turned, groaning lightly before remembering where she was and what happened. She sat up too quickly, her head protesting with a violent jolt and she closed her eyes so that the room wouldn't swirl around her. When she managed to get her facilities under control again, she cautiously opened her eyes and looked around the room, taking care to keep from turning her head too quickly and risking vomiting from the dizziness.

Anderson was snoring lightly in a rickety-looking chair, a bayonet resting on his lap. His glasses had fallen off in his sleep and now lay atop his hands, which still clutched the blade's handle as if for dear life. She noticed for the first time that he wasn't wearing his usual layered outfit, instead sporting only black pants and a dark gray shirt. He wasn't even wearing shoes or gloves. _Well, what did you expect_? She thought, examining him from her spot on the bed. _Even a priest won't go to sleep completely dressed in full uniform. _

She took her eyes off him and looked instead at the door, but there was no sign of the creature—a Siren, if that's what it truly was—that had been scratching and scraping at it. It might have given up and gone away before dawn; she wasn't sure if Sirens were afraid of the daylight or not.

Taking another good look around the miniscule room, she noted that Anderson had taken some measures to make it his own, even with the generic furniture. The biggest piece of furniture in the room was the bookcase, which he'd somehow managed to squeeze in between the bed and the wall, though it did seem to be a very tight fit. It was stacked floor to ceiling with books; she was surprised at how many there were.

Books were crammed into every corner, spilling over onto a chest that held a cheap television. There were books underneath the rabbit-ear antenna, stacked haphazardly on the floor—even a chair was nearly bent in two from the weight of the volumes. _What does he read, I wonder? _She picked up the nearest book and opened to the front page, her fingers trailing on the surprisingly dusty spine.

"_Legiones Inferni: Advanced Exorcism Dealing with Circles 6-9," _she read under her breath. She flipped through the pages, stopping to peer at the illustrations of different demons curiously. "Interesting." She put the book back down and climbed off the bed, careful to keep quiet. She looked at the bookcase, pulling out books that caught her interest and looking through them nosily. "_Spells and Silent Incantations of the Ancient Syrians… Testament of Solomon… Combatting Demons Through the __Pseudomonarchia Daemonum__… The Three Books of Occult Philosophy?_" She pulled this one off the shelf, casting a glance at the sleeping priest. "Why on earth would he need this?" she muttered.

She opened it up, looking at the front page where a man was displayed inside a pentagram. She arched a brow and frowned; she had seen the same image before in some of her ancestor's journals. She knew that van Helsing had used occult books like this one in his studies of magic, and eventually in his experiments with Alucard. But for it to be in the paladin's personal library; that sent up a red flag. Did Anderson make a connection somewhere, and was he now trying to figure out how to defeat Alucard using occult methods?

She put the book back, stowing the information away in her mind. She would have to keep a sharp eye out from now on, it seemed. For all she knew, Anderson might have been studying it right under Maxwell's long nose. She moved away from the bookcase and looked out the window, though she didn't dare open it for remembrance of what had happened in the dark of night.

Smoke still billowed from the horizon, marring the otherwise cloudless sky and hiding the piercing blue of morning from sight. As she took in the sight of ruined buildings around her and fire in the distance, she put together that the explosion must have happened there, and the resulting shockwave was what had crumbled the ceiling and blown the roofs off of the buildings around them. What had happened? Was this an act of terrorism? If so, what of the Sirens? Integra felt as though she had the pieces of a puzzle in her hands, but none of the edges fit together and she couldn't see the larger picture.

She turned and caught sight of herself in the smallish mirror upon the vanity. She moved closer, peering at herself in shock. Streaks of white chalky sheetrock had stained her hair and gave her the appearance a mime. Her forehead had a thin scratch, and her hair was completely disheveled. Her white shirt was stained in places and the right shoulder was ripped on her upper forearm, barely hanging on by a thread. She went ahead and tore it off, rolling up the other sleeve to match it. Her pants looked awful, one side completely gone while the other had a gaping hole. Her arms and legs showed bruises, and when she touched her skull she felt a knot beneath her hair from where she hit the ceiling.

She grimaced and went straight to the bathroom, planning on getting herself looking decent again. In the small bathroom (she wondered briefly how a large man like Anderson could move around in the tiny space without getting stuck) she managed to find another washcloth and scrubbed the rubble-dust off of her face and arms. She ran the cloth over her hair, but it did little to get the grime off. She knew she'd end up having to shower, but she wasn't stripping down in a strange man's bathroom for anything.

She checked the bandage on her leg while she was in there. The lights hadn't come back on, but she could see just fine in the sunlight. The shirt strips were bloodied, but not soaked completely though, and her leg was much better in terms of pain. It was still very uncomfortable to walk on, but at least she could put her full weight on it.

The only thing she couldn't find in her search of the bathroom was a hairbrush. The usual state of his hair suggested that he might not own one, but she just couldn't believe that anyone, male or not, would go throughout life without _at least_ a pocket comb. She wandered back into the bedroom, glancing around at the (precious few) surfaces in search of one. She spied the drawers on the vanity and bit her lip, mind conflicted. While she wasn't one to open people's drawers and pry, she also wasn't going to be comfortable running around like she'd been raised in a barn. And, dammit, he hadn't so much as moved the entire time, still laid out in the chair sleeping.

Well, perhaps she'd open the two topmost drawers, and if she couldn't find one, then she'd wake him up over some imagined problem and then ask him where he kept it. She slid open one drawer and found stacks of neatly rolled socks. The other held pictures. This drawer caught her attention more than the socks, and even as she knew it was wrong to look, she still reached her hand into the drawer and barely touched the glossy memories scattered within. One caught her attention enough that she fished it out from the rest, all the while keeping an ear out for a change in the snoring.

It was one of the few black and white photographs mixed in with the drawer of faded Polaroids, and she looked closely at it, turning towards the window to see it better. Anderson was in the picture on the far left. He was dressed in a military uniform, a beret sitting neatly atop his head and not a hair out of place. It had taken her a moment to recognize him, mostly because he was both clean-shaven and missing the large scar. He was also a few years younger, and was smiling brightly at the camera.

He had his arm around the shoulders of a woman. She was heavyset and one arm was lifted as if to brush the flyaway strands of pale hair out of her eyes, her mouth set in a way that suggested she had been talking the moment the picture was taken. She wore a dress patterned with small flowers, and a knitted shawl obscured part of the lace collar. On her other side, a bony man stood with a cap in hand, looking at the camera with a gentle sort of half-smile. His hair and eyes were as dark as the others were light, and his garments were simple and patched in many places. They stood together before a splintered fence, the background a blank canvas that she took to be sky.

She looked closely at the photo, wondering who the people were. The woman's eyes were the same grayscale hue as Andersons, and the man's cheekbones and long face were similar—perhaps they were his parents? She turned the photo over to see a woman's neat handwriting in the corner: _Jinny, Graham, Alex, autumn 1945. _She put the photo back and closed the drawer.

She had never thought much about where Anderson had come from. After all, in all the intelligence she'd ever been able to gather from the Vatican, none of it had pointed to any origin or birthplace. But he had been more than just a priest—he'd been a soldier, at some point. He had family to go back to, to be happy with. He'd had a home outside of the Church walls. It raised more questions than answers.

She was about to open another drawer when a vehicle roared to life and sputtered before settling out into a revving putter. Anderson jumped to life as if he'd been shocked, his eyes wide and taking her in before he turned to the window.

"The bus!" he shouted, and while she had no idea what he was talking about, she still went over to peer around his shoulder. She could see nothing from the window, but the (bus?) revved once more and then the sound of metal hitting something turned into the sound of a vehicle racing away, slowly fading into nothing.

"Someone's out there." She knew she was stating the obvious, but he didn't seem to think about it. He looked at her and shook his head before rubbing his neck and wincing. "Where's your hairbrush?" she asked him when it seemed as though she wouldn't get any more information about the sound outside. He stared at her blearily before tromping over to the vanity and opening a different drawer, pulling out a comb and handing it to her. He looked her over, taking in the rolled up sleeve and the horrendous state of her trousers.

"I dunno how ye managed to get into such a state comin' down the stairs." He frowned condescendingly and shook his head.

"Easy," she replied, turning to the mirror and beginning to comb the snags out of her thick hair. "I tried to climb over the rubble and lost my footing." He huffed and went to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him without another word. He stayed gone for a while, and she heard water running. She finished combing her hair and laid the comb on the vanity, moving back to the bookshelf and picking up _Legiones Inferni_. She sat back on the bed and began to read until he was finished.

"So, what are we going to do?" she asked when he returned from the bathroom. His face was red from scrubbing and he looked at her strangely before shaking his head and moving to the armoire, pulling out his jacket and long coat.

"I dunno what ye mean "we", Hellsing." He drew on his coat and moved around her to pull open another drawer and grab his gloves, slipping them on. He then grabbed the book out of her hands and stuck it back on the shelf. "_I'm_ going to find the Pope and Maxwell, and my orphans. I need to make sure they're alright. After that, I'm going to kill the Sirens."

"You _aren't_ going to leave me here," she replied calmly, sounding just as commanding as ever.

"I am," he answered sternly. "Ye won't be runnin' all over Creation gatherin' secrets for yer little Protestant knights back home. Ye can stay here where ye'll be safe and sound until we can gather a chain of command."

"I will not," she refused adamantly, standing up to square off with him. He was taller than her, but she was just as stubborn as he was—maybe more so. She wasn't used to being told "no", and she wouldn't take it for an answer unless it came from the mouth of the Queen herself. "You can go on, but I'm going to find my vampire and get the hell out of this city before I get eaten."

"Just as well," he replied easily enough, adjusting his coat before opening the door and gazing out at the deserted hall. "If ye last more than a minute, I suppose we'll meet again."

The creature from last night was gone, it seemed. He walked through the door and down the hall, and she stepped just beyond the threshold to watch him. He stopped halfway, turning back to look at her with a conflicted gaze. She blinked back stoically at him, and his mouth twitched. He ran a hand through his hair, making as if to turn back, but then looking at her once more. He sighed and shook his head.

"Oh, jus' come on." She made a face and he clicked his tongue as if calling a dog. "Come _on_. I cannae justify leaving an unarmed woman alone in the middle of a battle. I cannae condemn ye to tha' kind o' death," he added as she picked her way towards him, avoiding a suspiciously dark stain on the floor. "Even if ye _are _nothin' more than a Protestant harlot," he added to himself as she passed.

"How noble of you," she simpered, rolling her eyes as she peered around the corner, her ears pricked for any sounds that didn't come from either of them. The door was smashed through, but there was no one outside and the singing had stopped.

"I'm a Christian man," he stated, moving around her and nodding his head towards the far stairs. "I'll escort ye until we either reach the city limits, or ye find yer pet monster. After that, yer on yer own. But first, I want to check to make sure no one's left."

"Well, then; step lively, Papist. I want to go get my spare clothes before we head out into the open. And maybe find my pistol while I'm up there." They made their way to the second floor in silence, both of them preferring to keep an ear out for any dangers rather than continue flinging insults at each other. When they reached the landing, Integra could see the rubble clearly in the daylight. She made her way over to it, looking all around for her pistol but finding nothing.

"Damn," she cursed as she kicked aside demolished chunks of tarred roof, looking for the familiar gleam of metal. "That was my father's gun; if those accursed beasts stole it, I'll have their heads." Anderson was also looking around the ruin, his eyes silently scanning the wreckage before he cast them upwards and looked at the hole in the roof with a grim frown.

"Well, I can't find it here," she finally admitted. "I'm going to get changed. Why don't you see if anyone's still in their rooms?" She nodded to the closed doors as she headed for her still-open one.

When she returned, fully dressed in her spare suit and wishing she had thought to bring her sword, he was searching the last room. He shook his head when he emerged, a furious expression on his face.

"Got 'em out of their beds, they did," he grumbled, glancing once at her before heading down the stairs again. "Damned beasts, _I'll _have their heads before it's all said and done."

"There's no sign that Seras was here, either," Integra noted. "Damn that Maxwell," she cursed. "If he hadn't have made me sign that wager... like I'd have _willingly _brought Alucard here if it hadn't been anything except an emergency like this!" she complained.

"Maxwell's a shortsighted fool. I hate to say it, being the one that raised him, but he's a stupid, foolish boy sometimes," Anderson admitted. He paused at the foot of the stairs, lost in thought for a moment. Then he looked at her with a pensive frown. "We should make our way towards the Garage. There might be an automobile left down there, if the looters and monsters havenae stolen them all away."

She nodded, and they both stepped out into the morning light.

* * *

**Afterword:** (more for the first part of the chapter than anything else)

Yuki Kajiura: Siren Song

www . youtube watch ?v= KYzOu59W1 _ U


	4. Prepare for War

"This is the armory?" Seras asked in disbelief as she stared out the driver's window of the bus. Driving wasn't so hard; in fact, with no traffic on the streets it was nearly easier than driving a regular car, save one harrowing moment where they tried to cross a pile of debris and the bus nearly tipped backwards. "It says gelato." And true enough, the storefront window did read "Gelato di Gina: 10 New Flavor!" in bright, colorful lettering along with a painted image of a plump, motherly sort of woman in a head-kerchief holding a bowl of gelato.

"That's for the tourist's benefit," Heinkel explained as she motioned for Seras to park. "What are we supposed to put on the sign? "Vatican's Secret Ammunition Supply"?" she laughed as she forced the doors open and hopped out of the bus, her face showing relief at being on solid ground. The entire drive had been filled with an exotic mixture of German, Italian, and English curses every time Seras turned a sharp corner or pushed the gas pedal to the floor in an attempt to clear fallen buildings.

"Well, it certainly would have fooled me," Seras admitted as they walked inside, a bell tinkling merrily. The "gelato shoppe" hadn't been affected by the explosion too badly; the smaller buildings on this side of town had been sheltered by the larger Church buildings and had remained nearly intact, save a cracked windowpane or two.

The inside of the store looked as innocent as the outside, with its striped wallpaper and white wainscoting. The whitewashed counter gave way to an open freezer with a clear lid, signs plastered along the top listing flavors in Italian and English. Pictures of children enjoying various frozen treats decorated the walls. Seras walked across the tiled floor to the freezer, but when she looked down inside it was empty, and the metal inside gleamed like it was brand new. Looking around, she noted that the tile wasn't scuffed in any place, and the tables were covered in dust, though not enough to arouse suspicion should someone peer inside through the window.

Heinkel pointed out a door behind the counter that read "Employees Only". She opened it and Seras was surprised when they came face to face not with a storeroom, but with a large safe door, like the kind used in banks. Heinkel typed in a combination, fingers moving almost habitually over the keypad, and a flap in the safe door opened. She then dug around in her pocket and found an ID card, which she swiped. The tumblers turned with a well-oiled click-clack and the door unlatched with a hiss, revealing a very narrow, steep set of cement stairs.

"The actual armory is deep underground," she said, ushering Seras in ahead of her and closing the wooden door, and then the safe door. The lights were on in the stairwell, to Seras' surprise, but Heinkel answered her question before she was even able to ask. "It has its own generator underground too, because some of the weapons need to have a stable air temperature. If it gets too hot or too cold, the whole thing could blow, and _that _wouldn't be good."

They descended in silence; their boots were muffled on the cement, and while Seras could hear the slow creak of the lights on the wires overhead, she knew the sound was too high-pitched for human ears. They reached the bottom quickly and the corridor twisted and turned until it forked. Heinkel pointed towards the left one.

"The right leads to a drainage ditch," she said, once again answering Seras' unspoken query. "We've never had a break in, but it doesn't hurt to have a few traps just in case." They went down the left fork and turned again, and Seras saw the light become brighter up ahead. A third turn showed an open door at the end of the hall, and Heinkel stopped with a puzzled frown. Seras paused too, turning to look at the woman over her shoulder. Before she could speak, she heard a faint masculine voice.

"… thirteen and two and twelve; that makes _exactly_ nineteen-hundred and thirty eight boxes of high-grade explosive shells." Heinkel's expression moved from disbelief to irritation to relief, all in the span of a few seconds. She waved her hand for Seras to move forward, and they crept to the door.

Seras stepped through the threshold first, standing in the brighter light of the room. She looked up, mouth dropping. She hadn't realized that when Heinkel said armory, she had meant _armory_. The walls had to have been three stories high_ at least_, with balconies built around the upper edges and rolling ladders placed at strategic points throughout the room. It was a veritable warehouse—Hellsing's armory was nothingto this!

Looking closer, she could see the labels on the rows upon rows of shelving that held the weapons and their ammo. She glanced at the rows nearest her and gazed at the nameplates with amazement: _Automated rifles—Electric Arsenal, Expertise Weaponry—Grenades, Handheld Canons—Late 18__th__ Century handguns, Lycan Paraphernalia—Twin Barrel Mechanics, _and that was just four shelving units out of hundreds… no—thousands!

A thump to her left had her looking over to see a man bent over a clipboard, scribbling away as he stood beside neat stacks of index-card sized boxes that reached high above his head. He was only a little taller than herself, gangly with a very thin neck that looked liable to snap at any moment. He wore the dark clothes and glasses of the Vatican Special Forces, but the spectacles had slipped down his nose and showed bright brown eyes focused intently on whatever he was writing. He had blonde hair that was neatly combed and parted, save for a cowlick just above his left eye.

She moved, her clothes rustling, and he looked up at her. His pencil ceased its scratching, hand poised above the board, and he froze. She could see his pupils dilate in shock, eyes widening almost imperceptibly. She heard his heart skip a beat and then speed up, and she saw the color change in his skin, draining from his cheeks as the blood rushed to his limbs instead. She saw it all with a wave of something very close to revulsion, knowing that it was her enhanced predatory senses at work.

"Good gracious me!" he exclaimed after a moment's stare-off with her. "I do believe it's a vampire!" He looked up at the ceiling, his glasses slipping back up his nose with the action. "Nocturnal creatures—tier three, two shelves over, nine back. Oh dear, oh _dear_…." Seras moved back, sensing his discomfort, and Heinkel pushed her way into the room just as another man slid down a nearby ladder.

Seras realized with a start that the other man was the blonde's mirror image… well, almost. The face, thin neck, cowlick—it was all there, bit for bit. The only noticeable difference was the presence of facial hair: the pale sideburns were just a little longer, a sparse mustache growing on the upper lip, stubble spread across his chin and jaws. He walked up to the other, and she could see they were clearly identical twins.

"What's it?" he asked, his voice automatically sounding grave where the other was a bit more freehearted. "Vampire?" The clean-shaven twin pointed and he looked to see Heinkel, his brow knitting before he blew a sharp exhale, his cowlick quivering from the breath. "You dummy. That's just that girl Heinkel Wolfe."

"'s not who I saw before," the other protested, but looked unsure as he adjusted his glasses on his nose again. "Ello, Heinkel Wolfe," he added after a moment, though the cheer was still overshadowed by uncertainty.

"What are you two doing here?" she asked brusquely as Seras entered the room again. The twin with the five o'clock shadow's eyebrows rose as he took in her uniform and red eyes, but he wisely didn't comment on Heinkel's companion. Instead, he exchanged a glance with his twin and they moved to stand shoulder to shoulder, advancing a step as if to push the women out of the room.

"Inventory," they answered simultaneously.

"And we'd appreciate it if you came back later," the clean-shaven one added. "We'd rather—"

"No, we'd rather not have to recount because you've taken things out," the other finished. Heinkel sputtered a moment and then ran a hand through her hair, scowling.

"Do you dummies not know what's going on above your head?!" she hissed. "How long have you been down here?! The City's being blown up as we speak!" Both blinked at her uncomprehendingly, and then looked at each other.

"What day is it?" the hairy one finally asked.

"Friday!" Heinkel barked impatiently, arms crossed. The twins laughed at the same time, their voices rising and falling in pitch with the other.

"Ha-ha!" the clean-shaven one chortled. "Very funny! It's only Wednesday! You shouldn't—"

"You shouldn't joke about that sort of thing," the other said as he stopped his laughter abruptly.

"I'm not joking!"

"She's telling the truth," Seras added, speaking up for the first time. She pulled her mobile out of her pocket; she'd been checking it, but the cellular towers had to have been down from the power outage and explosions. She didn't have any signal whatsoever, but that didn't stop the calendar from working. She showed them the date on the digital screen, and they both blanched with matching expressions of disbelief.

"My God!" the hairy one yelled. The clean-shaven one seemed more taken aback than anything else.

"We've been down here for two days…." He paused, looking up at the boxes. "No wonder we've been making such good time."

"We've been making horrible time if it's been two days!" the other corrected angrily. His twin made a sound of agreement and then his face scrunched.

"They didn't even send anyone down to check on us!" he proclaimed with a frown. "We could have been dead, and they just forgot all about us!"

"There's a damn war going on up there! _Of course_ they'd have forgotten about you!" Heinkel broke in.

"I bet they didn't hear the Siren song because they were so deep underground for so long," Seras pointed out. The twins looked at her strangely, clearly confused as to what she meant. "And they probably didn't feel the explosions, either."

"I'm sorry, but _who _are you?" the hairy one asked. Seras held out a hand.

"Seras Victoria," she introduced herself. "I'm here with the Hellsing Organization—well, I was, but everything that's happened has kind of gotten us all off track." The clean-shaven one reached for her hand, shaking it in a firm grasp. She could nearly feel the individual bones in his fingers. _Well, if they can stay in one place for two days without eating, it's no wonder they're both such gaunt blokes, _she thought.

"I'm Lorenzo Mancinni. And this is my older twin, Leonardo," he said in a chipper tone as he let go, though the other didn't take her hand and after a moment she had no choice but to let it drop.

"Hellsing—Isn't that part of the Royal Order of Protestant Knights?" he asked callously, brown eyes burning into hers over the rims of his dark glasses. Seras met his gaze evenly.

"Yes, it is." Leonardo's lips tightened, but he said no more. Lorenzo looked between the two, his smile widening nervously, and then stepped over to Heinkel.

"So, I suppose it's not too safe topside at the moment, is it?"

"Obviously," she quipped. "That's why I'm here for some backup ammunition. A few boxes of bullets, some grenades, two or three other guns…." She paused, thinking. "Yew arrows, a flamethrower or something like it, do we have anything else made of wood?" The twin scratched his head.

"I think we have some wooden stakes in the Vampire section," he replied with a wary glance at Seras. "And I know we have a few splintered crosses in the back that someone threw in here rather than in cold storage where it belongs," he added with a disapproving frown. "I'm hungry," he said suddenly, as if just now realizing it. "I guess we'll come with you. After all, you'll need help loading all that up in your-?"

"We took the bus," Heinkel mumbled, and both twins grimaced. Seras frowned as well, starting to wonder what had happened on that bus to make everyone hate it so badly. She couldn't think of anything wrong with it, other than it being old. "It's probably a good idea that you come with us, actually," she continued as she walked towards the shelving marked "Handheld Artillery Ammunition".

"Yeah, nearly everyone else has been brainwashed by the Sirens," Seras said when she rounded the corner and disappeared from view. The twins looked surprised.

"Siren?" they looked at each other, then back at Seras.

"Sorry, we're not… you mean the monsters, right?" Lorenzo asked hesitantly. "We're actually part of the Accounting Agency, so we don't deal in the same expertise as Iscariot. We're just here sorting through inventory to make sure their budget accounts add up the way they're supposed to," he explained sheepishly.

"That's right. The Sirens were singing, but you probably couldn't hear it underground. It didn't affect me because I'm a vampire," she saw them both cringe at the word, but chose to ignore it, "and it only affects virgins, so—" She broke off at the look on their faces, realizing that she must have said too much. The twins looked at the place where Heinkel disappeared, their eyebrows rising comically high. Suddenly, the younger began to laugh, a hand clapping over his mouth to muffle the escaping sounds. The elder had the decency to act more mature about it, but Seras saw the corner of his mouth twitching as well when he thought she had turned away for a moment.

"Alright, everyone start grabbing boxes and let's get this upstairs before someone finds that bus," Heinkel ordered in a no-nonsense manner, combing back with her arms loaded with boxes of bullets and guns. She stopped when she saw the twins, one glaring sternly at the other, who was nearly doubled over trying to keep his laughter in. "What?" she asked. Seras and Leonardo both shook their head with assuaging murmurs, and he quickly began to take the boxes from her hands while she searched for something larger to carry it all in.

* * *

The glow of fire from the City could be seen at Italy's coastline. The human population was frantic—no one could get in touch with the Pope or his staff, any military forces sent within the walls of the City wasn't heard from again, and the entire night had been a government fiasco. The Italian officials tore out their hair in a frenzy; the newscasters were calling it an overt act of terrorism, all eyes were pointed at them, and they had no clue as to _who_ had attacked the Vatican, _how_ they managed to get in, and _why_ such an attack had been ordered in the first place.

But while they sweated beneath the news lights and gave their best fake-smiles for the camera, lying through their teeth that the whole thing was under control, that His Holiness was alive and well, that they had secure leads as to who had caused this travesty, and that their armed forces were already hard at work reestablishing infrastructure—in reality, the ones who knew (or guessed) the most were not the humans at all.

* * *

In a luxurious Venetian mansion, a human servant dashed down the marble halls in her bare feet, still wearing her nightclothes. She rounded the corner and threw open the double doors that led to the bath, which was more of a swimming pool in terms of size. Behind a folding screen adorned with images of grapevines, two harp players set the mood with gentle music. The water lapped at the stairs surrounding the bath.

"_Nobildonna_!" the servant girl hastily bowed as she addressed the naked figure reclining in the bath. The woman's magenta eyes lazily opened and she regarded the little girl with an emotionless frown. She pushed her humidity-curled raven locks behind her shoulders and tilted her head, one hand rising from the water. Immediately, a waiting servant pressed a silver goblet into the palm and she took a dainty sip.

"_Sí_?" she finally answered, clearly showing all that she took things at her own leisure, and had no qualms about making the clearly-harried servant wait an extra moment.

"_Il Vaticano_… it has fallen! My Signore Gaspare has sent Signora this letter." She handed it over with another bow, sinking to her knees with downcast eyes. The woman, who upon hearing the news had sat up in the water with widened eyes, took the letter and looked quickly at the wax seal upon the back before breaking it and reading the letter hastily.

_Dolcezza mia,_

_Rest assured that all is well for me at this moment. I write this only to keep you from worrying so when you hear the news. The Vatican is, at this point, little more than a few broken buildings and scattered bones. The Sirene have destroyed nearly everything. The United Roman Legion has sent most of the delegates back home, but a few Nosferatu do remain to see what can be done. _

_Of course, a message has been sent to His Majesty the King detailing the events of the night. As his former Childe is currently residing in the Vatican City on business, I am more than certain that he already knows: If my own dear Callidora was in the City, I would have watched the borders with hawk's eyes. Nevertheless, we await orders as His Majesty's faithful soldiers. _

_I will write again when I learn more. As of now, our chief concern is the Sirene moving into Rome and going against the government there. Our own lives would be at stake—the humans respect us, but I'm worried that their innate fear will overpower better judgement in days to come. Domenico speaks of asking the seafolk for help, but I highly doubt that Muirgheal wishes to deal with more "landloper" affairs than she must. They certainly know how to distance themselves from politics, those mermaids. _

_I hope my letter finds you as well as I left you. Stay at home—stay alert. Send me a response when you have a moment, but for God's sake, __don't use Archimedes__. We've heard through the grapevine that Edothei's three daughters are leading the Sirene, and the eldest is more than sharp enough to see owls frequenting the sky and make a connection. We need to keep her out of the loop—send word by pigeon, if you can. If not, I think a lark should do just as well. _

_I remain your loving husband and devoted servant, _

_Sig. Gaspare di Mocenigo_

When she finished reading, she clutched the letter to her breast, her eyes closed. She took a deep breath and then motioned for a servant.

"Fetch my paper and ink, quickly." The woman murmured assent and all but ran for the door in order to gather her mistress's things. "Oh, that he would just come home for once!" she groaned. "He'll get himself killed on the front lines yet, Marta."

"My lord is loyal to his causes, Signora," Marta, who was still kneeled, replied boldly. Though only a whelp of twelve, the lady of the house liked her and allowed her to take certain liberties. "His Majesty the King couldn't ask for a better soldier."

"So he has said, on occasion," the woman replied proudly. "Still, if he were to die, I'd walk into the sun without a moment's hesitation…. Oh, _Gaspare_," she murmured as the servant came back with the proper letter-writing utensils. She flipped over in the bath to lean against the rim and write, taking care to keep her tears of worry from seeping onto the page and smearing her ink.

* * *

A laughing owl soared silently over the English countryside, solemn despite its namesake. Its large orbs searched for its target and suddenly it dropped, swooping low across the tree line and circling the manor once, twice before expertly dipping through an open window near the ground. It flew into the basement room, landing on the rafters and blinking before moving to land lightly on the arm of the chair—no, _throne_, for that was no mere chair, with the scarlet cushions and gilded sides.

The owl clicked its beak, holding out its leg and waiting for the tiny roll to be pulled off its leg. When nothing happened, the owl looked up impatiently at the man in the chair. He was slumped over, sleeping soundly, surrounded on all sides by empty packets of plastic. The owl took no notice of the clutter, only watching the man for signs that he would accept the roll of parchment. When nothing happened, it clicked its beak in annoyance and pecked the center of the pentagram drawn on the stark white glove.

It continued to peck until the fingers twitched and the man let out a low groan, shifting in the chair. When the man's eyes didn't open, it hooted loudly, fluttering its wings as if saying "Excuse me! Down here!" Its efforts were rewarded with an irate crimson gaze as the man finally roused himself, rubbing one hand over his forehead.

"The first time I can actually sleep without people talking in my mind, and I can't even enjoy it," he grumbled, but obligingly unwrapped the note from the owl's leg. It gave him the most derisive look an owl can muster before hopping along the armrest to stand at the end and look at itself in the reflection of the decanter sitting on the end table.

The man unrolled the note and read it through twice, his eyebrows bunching closer and closer with each word. He looked at the far wall, something akin to bewilderment flitting across his face before he slowly inclined his head, ear towards the ceiling. The owl noticed and copied the gesture until its head was sideways as well, hooting questioningly. Suddenly, the man stood, shadows swirling around him and covering him like a moving blanket. He appeared from the murky darkness dressed in red, slipping a pair of sunglasses on his head.

"Wait here," he ordered the owl, which blinked once and then spread its wings, flying to the rafters and tucking a head under its wing. The man stuffed the note inside his coat pocket and vanished out of sight, leaving only a swirl of mist and the faintest aura of unease.

"Walter, is there something you'd like to tell me?" The butler jerked in surprise and turned on his heel, eyes wide and fingers twisting habitually though there were no wires to manipulate. When he saw that it was only Alucard, he breathed a sigh of relief and frowned.

"_For God's sake_, Alucard! I'm too old for you to be scaring me like that; one of these days you'll pop out of the wallpaper and I'll drop dead of a heart attack!" he scolded sharply, shaking his head. "I haven't the time for you tonight anyhow. I've got to gather the Knights and besides that—"

"My master and my servant are in grave danger, and you neglected to tell me," Alucard cut in, dismissing the man's anger. He felt an unnatural fury bubbling beneath his skin. He hardly ever got this angry—it was true that he was impatient and short-tempered, but he never quite reached this point, where he was truly considering teaching the butler a lesson he wouldn't soon forget. He felt more for Walter than the barely-tolerated soldiers swarming the house day and night, but the man wasn't above getting a taste of his rage if it were merited.

"I didn't tell you because I haven't gathered all the information yet," Walter replied shortly, brushing past the vampire and into Integra's office. He clicked the computer mouse once and snarled under his breath when nothing happened on the screen. "The Italian press has been fed the wrong information, naturally, but I can't seem to get in touch with my contacts in the Vatican. The phone lines are dead, my emails are unanswered, and from the newsfeed it looks like the entire place was up in flames only a few short hours ago."

Alucard followed his gaze to the television screen, which had been rolled in on a trolley and was now sitting with an antenna leaning haphazardly off the side, fully extended. The fuzzy picture showed the 24 hour newsfeed, which was flickering between the English newswoman speaking with an Italian representative and shots of what looked to be a war-torn city. The favored shot was one of a cathedral ablaze, it seemed. The scrolling text at the bottom proclaimed that the Pope whereabouts were unknown, the Italian government was under fire for hiding the truth, the damages to the City were immeasurable due to the priceless works of art housed in the Church's walls, and many countries were threatening war if something were to happen to their ambassadors while on Italian soil.

"I'm sure you realize the gravity of the situation," Walter said when he caught the expression on the ancient vampire's face. "If I only knew what we were up against… Seras will protect Sir Integra, I'm sure. But if—"

"Sirens." Alucard turned away from the screen before he punched a hole through it. Yes, the Police Girl would perform her duties until the last, protecting their master. But who would be there to protect her? She knew nothing about creatures beyond humans and their own kind. How would she know that bullets wouldn't faze a Siren? Would she be able to figure out that they couldn't be drowned?

He reached out with his mind, but something cut off the gap and it still remained; Seras had briefly muttered something earlier about a contract, but before he could ask further the link had been severed. No… not severed, exactly. If it had been cut off completely, it would have been something much worse. He'd seen others, others who had been separated from their fledglings by death or dark magic; the result had not been pretty, but until he had created a fledgling of his own he hadn't understood the severity of it. No, this was not severed, this was… disrupted. Like a radio signal that had become garbled in transmission, or cut completely by enemy troops.

"Sirens?" Walter repeated, blinking. His brow furrowed and he shook his head. "I-I don't understand, I thought you were cut off completely from both Sir Integra and Seras. How do you know this?" Alucard pulled out the crumpled note.

"Unlike you humans, my contacts are both punctual and harder to kill off," he smirked. "Sirens don't affect my kind in the slightest, other than being an annoyance. They want to know how I want to take care of this problem."

"Take care of it?" Walter asked, his eyes narrowing. "Why would they be asking you that? Isn't this more of a human problem, if the Sirens can't kill you all off?"

"Sirens _are_ killing off the humans, though. At an alarming rate, in fact," Alucard responded, studying his gloves nonchalantly as he tucked the note back into his pocket. "That's a large portion of food, isn't it? What's more to be said?"

"Cynical creature… people are dying, and all you can think about is your next meal." Walter looked thoroughly disgusted, but Alucard only chuckled.

"And yet, vampires are one of the few "supernatural" beings still in existence." Walter sighed and shook his head, clearly not wanting to argue the point.

"Are you absolutely certain that it's Sirens?" he asked. "If so, I'm going to have to do some research. I'm not familiar with them; they aren't local to this area, are they?"

"No," Alucard admitted. "I've only heard of them existing near the Adriatic Sea. They fight with the Southern tribe of merfolk for territory, though the Sirens can go on land if they choose." He glanced back at the television. "And so they've chosen," he added, almost to himself. "This isn't anything recent. This has been centuries in the making." And now, like an unwatched pot of water, it had bubbled over and spread across the sea and land, and the cardinal rule had been broken: humans had noticed.

"This isn't good," Walter said aloud to no one in particular. He dialed a number on the telephone, but only received a busy tone in return. "This isn't good at all."

* * *

**Afterword:**

Young Buck: Prepare for War

(*Disclaimer: This song is not quite safe for work or children, containing derogatory terms and stuff. Be warned, guys.)

www . youtube watch?v = p86kjhuodmI


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